


Yuletide Memories

by peridot_tea91



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Tree, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Magical Accidents, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining, References to Depression, Running Away, Snark, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28036341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridot_tea91/pseuds/peridot_tea91
Summary: Everyone has secrets, some good and some bad. Bree Wildes, a witch and god-daughter to the late Bobby Singer, is keeping far too many for Dean’s liking, leaving Sam torn between giving her the benefit of the doubt and his brother’s suspicions. But what happens when the holidays cause Bree to come crashing down? Sometimes, we need someone to lean on, even if it breaks us.*Resuming and to be completed December 2021; chapters will also be undergoing edits/updates daily beginning December 1st*
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Original Character(s), Sam Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 7
Collections: Peridot's Holiday Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit indulgent for myself, encouraged by my therapist (that’s not a note you see everyday); certain characters and situations I pulled from my own personal experiences while others are the “what ifs” or are dramatized for the sake of the story. Story takes place in s12, beginning just before “LOTUS”, and then diverging canon from there.

Bree shuffled sleepily towards the bunker’s kitchen. The concrete floors felt cold beneath her feet despite her extra fuzzy socks, and she could really use a steaming hot cup of eggnog coffee. Aside from her groans at being awake and the soft padding of her feet down the corridor, the bunker was completely silent. Sam and Dean had taken off on some hunt gods-know-where and weren’t due to return for a few more days. The case was either in Colorado or Montana, but honestly Bree was still half-asleep when Sam had woken her up a few days prior and let her know they were leaving.

Unsurprisingly, Dean had been iffy about leaving Bree alone for the better part of a week, saying that he didn’t trust a witch not to blow up the place while they were away. Thankfully, Sam had placated his brother by offering to take full responsibility for her. He had also firmly reminded the distrustful hunter that Bobby had trusted Bree implicitly, and that that should be more than enough for them.

All things considered, Bree should have known that Dean would be cautious around her. Before Bobby died, the pair of them fought like cats and dogs; something about Bree’s very existence seemed to grind Dean’s gears. Sam, on the other hand, had been far more trusting, albeit a little hot-and-cold due to Dean’s constant complaining. It certainly didn’t help that ever since Bree had shown back up in the Winchester’s lives almost a year ago, it had been anything but smooth. She turned up one day at their motel room in Wisconsin, bloodied, bruised, and on the run. Naturally, trouble wasn’t too far behind her.

Without hesitation, Sam and Dean sprang into action, whisking Bree away to the safety of the bunker. It was ironic, really, a witch being hunted by other witches. But then again, apparently, they didn’t take too well to one of their own helping hunters. As much as she hated to admit it, Bree was a hunter herself, although she preferred to stay off the field. Didn’t matter to Bobby Singer, though; he trusted her regardless.

Things had come a long way since their early days back at Bobby’s junkyard. Back then, Bree and Dean would always bicker over trivial things, mostly because they were both far too sarcastic and mouthy for their own good. However, Bobby always made sure to keep things copacetic between them, and helped Dean get over his initial distrust, for the most part. 

But now, just under a decade later, those trust issues only seemed to have worsened. Ever since Purgatory and the Mark, Dean was so much colder to anyone supernaturally inclined, with a few exceptions—Bree was not one of them. Dean swore up and down that she was hiding something from them, keeping secrets, and constantly berated Sam for playing referee. As a result, the younger Winchester often withdrew from Bree, affected by his brother’s comments.

It certainly didn’t help that the last time Bree had seen the Winchesters, before Bobby’s death, she had sworn to return in just two weeks. She had gotten a call from an old contact overseas who needed help with a potential case and didn’t know who to turn to. The contact wasn’t a hunter, but they were familiar with the things that went bump in the night. Unfortunately, two weeks snowballed into months, and then years, after Bree fell down a rabbit hole of conspiracy, witchcraft, and the British Men of Letters.

Bree tried to leave messages for the hunters she left behind, letting them know what was going on. It wasn’t until she received a call from Garth a few months later that Bree even knew that Bobby was dead. The news tore her apart and sent her spiraling into a depressive episode. After Garth filled her in on the Winchester’s going off-grid because of Leviathans and being on the FBI’s Most Wanted List (again), Bree decided to stay away. So, for the next few years, Bree bounced around Europe and Asia, actively working against a witch cult, demons, and ducking from the British Men of Letters. In all that time, she only managed to return to the States maybe twice.

When Bree finally did return for good and gave the Winchesters the run-down of her current situation, the hunters agreed to make her safety top priority. However, Dean was suspicious, especially after the growing realization that, despite how long they had known each other, he and Sam still knew next to nothing about Bree. As a result, her relationship with the Winchesters was now mixed, at best. 

Dean, ever mercurial, would banter and seemingly joke with her one minute, only to eye her suspiciously while taking jabs at her the next. He was trying to keep Bree on her toes, both subtly and not-so-subtly reminding her that despite their history and her relationship to Bobby, he didn’t trust her. And, unfortunately, this meant that Sam was now stuck in the middle, playing devil’s advocate.

Staring blankly at the coffee pot before her, it took Bree a moment to comprehend where she was. She was so exhausted that she couldn’t even remember walking into the kitchen. It wasn’t until one of the fluorescent lights overhead began flickering that she snapped to attention. Under normal circumstances, flickering lights would have been cause for alarm, but in this case, it was merely a short in one of the ancient bulbs. Unamused by the momentary heart attack, Bree sighed in annoyance and flicked her finger as if flipping a switch, instantly steadying the light.

Setting about her mission for a morning pick-me-up, Bree was surprised to receive phone notifications from _both_ Winchesters. Dean’s was the typical “you better not have gone in my room” and “so help me, the bunker better still be standing when we get home”. Nothing like a Dean Winchester morning message to make a girl feel welcome. Bree rolled her eyes with a huff and shot off a quick “shut up and hunt” before turning her attention to Sam’s message.

 **SAM:** _Morning Bree. Wrapped up the case early and are headed home. Should be back sometime tomorrow afternoon._

Bree stared blankly at her phone a moment. She had once developed strong feelings for the younger Winchester. But, after years of emotional whiplash at the hands of him and Dean, Bree had started to feel apathetic. Sure, they flirted a bit, but since the death of her godfather, the young witch’s walls built back up and her self-confidence faltered. The last time she let Sam in was when he was in a state-run mental hospital in Indiana almost six years prior. Since then, Bree kept both brothers at arms-length. Why should she trust them when they constantly made her feel like dirt? Like she had no one in her corner? Instead, Bree slowly succumbed to the numbness and put on a fake smile.

 **BREE:** _thanks for the warning LOL_

 **SAM:** _How much of the bunker is still standing?_

 **BREE:** _none of it. Your hubris has failed you!_

 **BREE:** _I’ve burned the house down_

Bree smirked to herself as she sent off a picture to him of a creepy little girl grinning in front of a burning house (yeah, you know the one). It always surprised her how well she could fake friendly conversation, even one over text. It was probably something to be concerned about, but at this time of morning, Bree couldn’t really be bothered to care.

 **SAM:** _Good to know that over 50yrs worth of dust bunnies have finally been exterminated_

 **SAM:** _Dean’s allergies will be thrilled_

 **BREE:** _Nah. I magicked them to life. Now they’re hiding under his bed and in his porn collection_

 **SAM:** _Careful. He might just believe you_

 **BREE:** _shit you’re right…_

 **SAM:** _I’m Sam Fucking Winchester._

 **SAM:** _Of course, I’m right._

Bree couldn’t help but chuckle despite herself at Sam’s response. It was rare for him to act so cocky, but when he did it was always entertaining. Sam was in prime form today, which either meant that the case must’ve gone well or that Dean lost a bet. Personally, Bree hoped for the latter.

Shaking her head in mild amusement, Bree locked her phone and meandered down to the library, already on her second cup of coffee. If the boys were home, Dean would have made fun of her for how “girly” she took her coffee. Sam would have laughed but secretly snuck some of her flavored creamers when he thought nobody was looking. He may have been Mr. Health Nut and preached good eating every chance he got, but Sam Winchester was also a man with a secret sweet tooth. 

Standing beneath one of the library’s archways, Bree thoughtfully sipped her coffee while she looked around the room. For as much stuff as the bunker held, it still felt barren at times—despite the numerous books and displays, the lamps, and warm, wooden tables, the stone-grey walls, pillars, and floors oftentimes made the bunker feel like a military base. Or, a more accurate description in Bree’s case, like a prison. So much for the most wonderful time of the year.

Bree paused at the thought, reminiscing on once forgotten childhood holiday memories and traditions she shared with her dad. When Bree was little, her dad would have begun decorating the house the weekend after Thanksgiving. Christmas had always been his favorite holiday, between the lights and trees and traditions. Every year, he would set up an antique, Lionel train set underneath the tree along with a Christmas village. It was a tradition Bree’s grandmother started, and that her father had continued. But that was what felt like a lifetime ago. 

Now, it was already December 1st, and there were no holiday decorations in sight, not that the Winchesters were big on holidays anyways. It had been almost two decades since Bree celebrated any semblance of a holiday. A loving family, holiday cheer, comfort—just wasn’t really something Bree got to experience and hadn’t been for a long time. The longer she thought about it, the more Bree could feel a familiar pain and longing in her chest.

Perhaps that was what Bree really needed, the chance to pretend like everything was okay, even if just for a little while. She had felt a familiar emptiness growing for weeks, maybe even months. Depression had long been a struggle for Bree; unsurprising given her past, a past that she kept locked away and refused to let anyone near. Pushing away the stinging sensation in her eyes and the wave of stomach knots, Bree turned her attention back towards the bunker. Without color, plants, fresh air, or sunlight, the Winchester’s home could be a tad depressing at times. A little holiday cheer could be what everyone needed, not just Bree. Fishing her phone out of the pocket of her plum-colored, flannel, pajama pants, Bree quickly shot off another text to Sam.

 **BREE:** _December_

 **SAM:** _Yes, it is_

 **BREE:** _Christmas?_

 **SAM:** _Is a holiday_

Bree rolled her eyes and huffed. Sam was trying to mess with her again. Usually, when Sam got in a facetious mood, Bree was grateful for a moment of reprieve and reveled in it. Right now, however, she was on a mission.

 **BREE:** _Can we?_

 **SAM:** _Can we what? Celebrate it?_

 **BREE:** _YES!!!_

 **SAM:** _You’re Wiccan though? You don’t celebrate Christmas._

 **BREE:** _ACTUALLY, Samuel I celebrate both Christmas AND Yule_

 **BREE:** _And I’m not Wiccan. I’m an Agnostic Witch... Sorta...  
_

_**BREE:** It’s complicated  
_

**SAM:** _Ah. Right  
_

 **SAM:** _And it’s Sam_

 **BREE:** _Sammy_

 **SAM:** _..._

Bree snickered at Sam’s obvious annoyance. She could just imagine the look on his face as he read her messages.

 **BREE:** _so, can we?_

 **SAM:** _So, can we what?_

 **BREE:** _CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS!!!_

Bree waited anxiously for Sam to respond. She hoped that he would agree to celebrate the holidays, but at times Sam could be as much of a scrooge as his brother was. Eventually, his next text came through but, upon reading it, Bree felt herself begin to deflate.

 **SAM:** _Uhhh... Dean and I don’t really do the holidays_

 **SAM:** _Last time we did was right before he went to hell_

 **BREE:** _I know but that’s exactly why I think we should celebrate it!_

 **BREE:** _You’re both here. I’m here. We’re alive. So, what’s stopping us?_

 **SAM:** _Are you sure now is really the best time?_

 **SAM:** _I’m assuming you forgot about the British MOL? And the witches hunting you?_

 **BREE:** _No, I haven’t. But twisting our bones about it isn’t gonna help anyone_

 **BREE:** _Everyone loves Christmas_

 **BREE:** _Please Sam?_

 **SAM:** _…_

Bree held her breath, watching the three, lingering, little dots indicating Sam was typing his answer. In the pit of her stomach, Bree knew what it most likely would be, but she still hoped he would say otherwise.

 **SAM:** _Asked Dean. He says no._

Bree’s shoulders drooped, and she let herself slump into one of the stray armchairs in the library. Why was she even surprised? It’s not like she was particularly close with the Winchesters, despite them having known each other for so long. Dean never trusted her and with Sam things were… well Bree honestly didn’t know what the hell to think anymore. While they had offered her a safe place to stay, they constantly made Bree feel like the butt of every joke. Add being stuck in the militaristic bunker, unable to leave without a chaperone, Bree was left to feel simultaneously trapped and unwelcome. She hid it well, though… Almost too well. Getting shut down without seemingly so much as a second thought from Dean only made her feel worse. 

What did she expect? The man made it a point to remind her that she was a witch, something they would hunt normally. She wasn’t useful like Rowena, Dean made that very clear. Hell, he even treated the King of Hell better than he did her. It just made her miss Bobby even more.

Bree wallowed for a few minutes before her phone lit up once more. This time, however, Sam was calling rather than texting. Slapping her hand heavily on the phone and tabletop next to her, Bree bleakly answered the call. 

“Hello?”

“Oh, don’t fucking pout,” Dean’s gruff voice commanded, “You’ve got two minutes to make your case. So, go.”

Bree froze a moment in both surprise and confusion. For Dean to even consider letting her argue in favor of the holidays meant that Sam must have nagged his ear off and guilt-tripped him _hard_. The younger Winchester could honestly persuade his brother to do just about anything, within reason. Still, it came as a shock considering that Sam wasn’t exactly Mr. Holidays himself, either. Combine that with the whiplash he gave her on the daily, Bree honestly hadn’t expected to even be given a chance to try and change their minds.

“Hello?” Dean asked impatiently, waiting for the witch to make her pitch.

Snapped out of her shock, Bree didn’t hesitate, “Right! Sorry! I, uh, I was just thinking that doing something for the holidays would maybe do us all a bit of good. Y’all have been working just about non-stop. I’ve been cooped up in the bunker for months. Honestly, who couldn’t use a bit of holiday cheer?” she pitched, “I haven’t gotten to celebrate in, well, years because… reasons… but I think it’s really important that we do this year.”

Sam and Dean exchanged looks on the other end of the line. There was still a lot that the pair didn’t know about their witchy companion. So, the fact that she had her heart set on celebrating the holidays admittedly came as a bit of a shock. It also, however, provided them a rare opportunity to catch a glimpse behind the wall she kept between them. Both Winchesters would be lying if they said it hadn’t piqued their interests.

“Look, I’m not asking y’all to help, or clean, or do anything,” She continued with a soft sigh, “I’ll take care of everything myself. I’m just asking that you let me… spruce up the place a little for the holidays.”

“Who says that the bunker needs sprucing?” Dean asked indignantly.

“Nothing, if you like concrete man caves,” Bree retorted as she glanced around the library again.

“Pfft. Our secret base is just fine, thank you very- OW!”

Sam elbowed his brother in the ribs and gave him a stern look. Dean did, after all, promise to cooperate.

“Guys, I get it, okay? The bunker is your home and enough people have screwed with it already. But it’s the holiday season! I’m not asking to do anything permanent…”

Bree was getting increasingly disheartened with the conversation. Dean was stubborn as hell—once he made up his mind, good luck trying to convince him to change it. Sam was stubborn in his own right but could typically be swayed when appealed to logically or emotionally. Dean, not so much, _especially_ if Bree was involved.

“Why is this really an issue with you? Why are you so dead set on celebrating?” Dean asked bluntly, earning another look from his brother, which he ignored.

Bree hesitated a moment, biting her lip as she warred internally over how to respond. Typically, she hated talking about herself and anything personal. She hated the stares and looks of pity and sympathy that usually followed, as if she was a pathetic, sad, little girl. That was, if they even believed her in the first place, which was a whole other issue. Not to mention, she had a strong sense of self-preservation after the events of the past few years. But, if Bree wanted any sort of Christmas, she knew she was going to have to concede a little.

“My dad,” she finally answered meekly, “What few memories I have of him, they’re mostly from Christmastime. It was his favorite, and he _always_ made sure he was home. After he…” Bree swallowed hard, struggling with the words and feeling horribly exposed. She never told the boys about what happened, nor did she necessarily intend to, “Anyways, he always made sure the holidays were special. So full of life and color.”

“And you’re saying it’s not now?” Sam asked for clarification.

“Seriously? You have to ask?” Bree asked rhetorically, “C’mon guys, I know I came to y’all for help, and I appreciate you letting me stay here, but…”

“But?”

“It feels like I shouldn’t have bothered…” Bree’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the boys still heard it. The implication of her words hung heavy over them.

Since coming to stay at the bunker all those months ago, Bree had ventured out on maybe a handful of cases. And never without at least one of the Winchesters with her. It had been maybe a month or two into their living situation when they found out that the British Men of Letters were also interested in getting their hands on Bree. None of them had realized exactly how widespread their influence was around the globe. At least, not until the last case Bree accompanied the Winchesters on. After barely escaping the last attempt on her life, which almost cost Sam his, Bree was put on restriction. If she thought she had little freedom before, it was nothing compared to the way things were now. When Sam and Dean Winchester invested themselves in a protection detail, they certainly went all out.

That being said, the two hunters admittedly sometimes neglected to consider how Bree felt about the whole situation. True, she did come to them for help, but the witch-turned-hunter never expected to be placed on lock-down. At first, she had fought tooth and nail against being pent-up and left behind all the time. But over the past month or so, both Sam and Dean noticed that their companion seemed to lose interest in a lot of things she once was passionate about. Sam had attempted to get Bree to talk but was once again met with a familiar wall. It’s not like he could really blame her, with all the contention between them. This, in turn, had led to several arguments while he and Dean were out on the road, away from any eavesdroppers.

Bree couldn’t see it, being stuck in the bunker hundreds of miles away, but Sam and Dean were having one of their infamous, silent conversations. Dean may not entirely trust her, but never wanted the bunker to feel like a prison (unless they were in the dungeon, but that was a different story). Bree may be a witch, but she was also a hunter… and their friend, whether Dean wanted to admit it or not.

After what felt like an eternity, Dean finally spoke again, seemingly placated by her response, “If we’re gonna let you decorate, there’s gonna be a few ground rules.”

“What?”

“Nothing cheesy or cartoony. Keep it classy. Don’t choke us out with Hallmark Channel decorations and too much cinnamon and shit,” Dean continued, making sure to keep their house guest reigned in, “And I know your weird, hippie, witchy ass is gonna wanna do lots of shit with plants and whatever, but keep it to a minimum. Sammy gets hay fever.”

“You’re-you’re serious?”

“Oh, yeah. Dude’s like some sort of weird, pollen magnet. Doesn’t matter what season—if there’s even a little pollen, his face gets puffy and his eyes water and there’s all this snot-”

“OKAY DEAN!” Sam shouted, effectively interrupting him as his cheeks burned with embarrassment, “Yes, Bree, we’re serious. Just promise you won’t go too overboard, alright?”

“Yes! Yes! Of course!!” Bree stood up eagerly, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“And kid, if you break any of the rules, we’re taking it all down. Got it?” Dean added as a final warning.

“DEAL!”

And just like that, the line disconnected. Sam and Dean looked at each other and then the phone a moment before either of them spoke again.

“What the hell did we just unleash on the bunker?”


	2. Chapter 2

By the time the Winchesters reached the bunker the following evening, the familiar, inky darkness of nighttime in winter had settled over Lebanon. Almost the entire drive back, Dean reprimanded Sam for letting Bree coerce him so easily. It was the same old song and dance—Dean would give an inch regarding Bree only to immediately turn around and give him a tongue lashing for “flirting with a witch”. Dean made a point to make sure everyone knew that he didn’t trust Bree as far as he could throw her. After hearing it day in and day out, the older of the two brothers’ mistrust had become grating.

Sam simply rolled his eyes. He knew that he should be careful around Bree, especially with his history with women. But Bree was nothing like Ruby, and sure as hell nothing like Rowena. No, she was a creature all her own—unique and beautiful, yet altogether mysterious and confusing. Sam couldn’t quite explain it but there was just something about Bree that drew him in and made him never want to leave. He knew she was hiding _something_ , and oftentimes he worried about what that something was. Bree had a lingering sadness about her; a familiar darkness that scared him. So, Sam would pull away, try to remember his hunter training, and attempt to regain control over his senses. Before he knew it, however, he would be right back to staring at Bree longingly, wanting to see behind the curtain.

At first glance, when the boys pulled into the garage, everything appeared relatively normal. No gaudy decorations or excessive glitter was anywhere to be found, which was surprising considering how excited Bree had sounded on the phone. Making their way through the garage, it took Sam and Dean a moment to notice the large, yet tasteful wreaths hanging high on the pillars between the cars, giant, red bows adorning each. The boys eyed them as they passed, nodding in approval at the festive simplicity and wandering onwards to the central part of the bunker.

Upon entering the crow’s nest, as the boys so affectionately called it, Sam and Dean spotted plush, evergreen garland with velvety, red ribbon twisting along the stair rails and catwalk above. More wreaths decorated the otherwise vacant expanses of off-white walls, matching the garland perfectly. Again, it was simple, yet tasteful, adding a classic holiday twist to the room. It wasn’t until the pair stepped into the library, however, that they really got a good look at Bree’s handiwork. In the 18 hours since Sam and Dean last spoke to her, Bree had managed to transform the stoic, 1950’s bunker into something that could easily rival the fanciest of hotels. They were _floored_.

Silver and gold fairy lights intertwined with more fresh, evergreen garland, and draped across the beams running along the ceiling above, as well as around the cement pillars. Each of the mahogany tables in the center of the room had a read & burgundy beaded table runner, each adorned with a glittering poinsettia pattern stitched with intricate detail. In the center of each table sat a vintage, sparkling, silver and gold, light-up mini tree. But the true star of the room was the enormous, beautiful, glowing tree that stood proudly in the alcove containing the bunker’s telescope. It was fat and flourishing, standing a staggering nine-feet-tall, not counting the gorgeous, antique star perched on top.

Top to bottom was covered in glistening bulbs of all shapes and sizes, colorful candy canes, old-fashioned ornaments, more silver and gold lights, and various burlap flowers with glitter trim. It honestly looked like someone had pulled the room straight out of a vintage, holiday magazine. Both Sam and Dean were rendered breathless as they took in the room. 

Slowly, they stepped forward, awestruck as they tried to take in every intricate detail and holiday light. The farther in they went, the more amazed they were. Bree had polished the furniture and floors, helping the room glow even brighter. All the decanters had been washed and refilled, with top shelf whiskey, the boys would later discover, and new, shiny, crystal glasses had been set out. Sam even noticed that the garland and velvety, red ribbon repeated atop each bookcase that lined the library’s walls. Bree had completely outdone herself.

“This… just… WOW!” Sam could not believe the amount of effort she had put in. It was bright, warm, classy, and took the bunker to an entirely new level.

“All these lights and stuff,” Dean began as he slowly turned in place and continued to take in the room, “Were we living in the dark this entire time? And how the fuck did she get the tree in here?”

“Dean Winchester, are you questioning my capabilities?” Bree called from behind the tree, hanging up one last ornament and nodding in approval.

“You’re short. Yes, I question it,” he retorted, gesturing to her height.

Bree rolled her eyes and let out a huff before stepping out from behind the tree. Reaching beneath it, she pulled back the flannel tree skirt to reveal an old, worn, tree stand with runes drawn on it in white chalk.

“I used a little magic and literally _grew_ a tree. Happy?”

Sam and Dean looked at each other for a moment, making ‘not bad’ faces and shrugging before turning back towards their witchy companion, “Yeah. We good.”

Bree crossed her arms and smirked in satisfaction. Something was better than nothing, right? Dean strolled forward and began making his way towards the kitchen while Sam continued to hover, basking in the glow of the library. As he passed, the older Winchester gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You did good, kid,” he muttered approvingly.

Bree froze for a moment, unsure if she had correctly heard his remark. It was rare for her to receive any sort of compliment, so Dean’s simple acknowledgement sent a wave of surprised pride coursing through her. Unable to do much more than gawk in response, Bree turned back towards Sam, who had made his way up to where she stood by the tree. 

“So… thoughts?” she asked nervously as she tucked her hands into the pockets of her lounge pants and rocked on her heels.

“It looks amazing,” Sam praised with a warm smile, “You really went all out.”

Bree could feel butterflies twisting in her stomach at Sam’s words of praise, “It was nothing really. Oh! And you don’t have to worry—I rinsed all the pine branches before tying them into the garland. So, hopefully no allergy issues.”

“Wait… you made those?!” Sam asked with wide eyes, gesturing behind him.

“Yup. Just makes it a little more… special, ya know?”

“Well, you did a fantastic job. It… just wow!”

Bree couldn’t blush any harder if she tried, “Thanks, Sam. You should really see it when all the lights are out except for the decorations.”

“Yeah! I’ll just have to.”

Sam’s gaze lingered on her lips briefly before meeting her eyes once more. Standing beneath the sparkling lights of the fully decorated tree, Bree looked absolutely beautiful. Bright, blue-green eyes shining like glass stared back expectantly at him from beneath fluffy, dusty brown and lavender-tinted curls that haloed around her. The pair stood in silence momentarily, feeling the rise in delicious tension between them as they watched each other. 

Bree could feel her stomach twisting in uncertain anticipation but her mind quickly began to stumble over conflicting thoughts. She wanted Sam Winchester and had secretly grown to care for him deeply. But the constant whiplash from his mixed signals and conflicting behavior left Bree hesitant and full of self-doubt.

“Well, I’m gonna grab some… Yeah,” Sam finally spoke up awkwardly. He nodded towards the kitchen, subtly wiping sweaty palms on his jeans.

“Oh, yeah! Of-of course! I’m sure you’re starving. There’s, um, there’s some stuff in the fridge. Made a supply run yesterday morning,” Bree responded, shifting awkwardly out of the way as Sam moved past.

“Thanks.”

Sam made his way towards his brother and food, mentally kicking himself for acting like an awkward teenager with a crush. He desperately wanted to kiss Bree again, to savor the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips. But every time there was a possible opportunity, he mentally shut down and panicked. They had kissed before—twice, in fact—but that was damn near six years ago. She had to be completely over him by now, despite their back-and-forth conversation. Besides, why would she want anything to do with someone who constantly led her along? Not even on purpose, either. The idea stung, but Sam still couldn’t help how drawn he was to her.

* * *

_Sam was hunched over the edge of the bed, every bit exhausted and looking worse for wear. The hallucinations from Sam’s time in the cage and of Lucifer still pounded away at his mind, to the point where he hadn’t properly slept in weeks. He had let the hallucinations take hold one time, to save Dean, and had been paying the price ever since. Now, roughly five days without sleep entirely, Sam could no longer tell the difference between what was real and what was in his head. After taking enough pills to knock out a horse, getting hit by a truck, and undergoing a mandatory psych evaluation, doctors locked him away here, a state-run mental hospital in northern Indiana. Dean had vowed to get him help, but, at this point, Sam had given up hope. They were warned about the potential side-effects of Sam getting his soul back, but of course, Dean hadn’t listened._

_The sound of shoes softly thumping down the hallway grew louder as the owner drew nearer. Or maybe it was the sound of his own heartbeat? Sam couldn’t tell. Hell, maybe the noise was just another delusion. However, Sam was surprised when a familiar face rounded the doorway._

_“Sam,” Bree breathed._

_It had been a few months since either Winchester had seen her. They had admittedly been worried that perhaps Bree had died on a case, or that Leviathans had gotten to her. But here she was, like a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day. Bree’s mane-like waves and curls billowed around her face messily while her doe-like eyes stared back at him. She wore a dress Sam had never seen before—a short, black, hippie-style thing with lace accents and big, poofy sleeves that Bree had pushed up to her elbows. She was more than a welcome sight, contrasting greatly with the sterile whites and greys of the psych hospital. God, Sam prayed that she was real._

_“Damn, look at this fresh piece of tail,” Lucifer crooned from his perch on the desk, “Really should’ve tapped that while you had the chance, buddy. Just look at those thighs! Mmmmm… Hey, what sort of products do you think she uses in her hair? It’s always so fluffy!” Lucifer added with a wiggle._

_“Hey, Bree,” Sam greeted with a tired smile, ignoring the hallucination._

_“Oh Sam… I’d heard what happened, but I didn’t realize how bad things were,” she spoke softly as she entered the room, slowly walking towards him._

_“How’d you find me?”_

_“Dean put out an SOS along the hunter network and Garth ended up calling me. Said he thought I could maybe help a little.”_

_“Oh…”_

_Bree reached forward and tenderly brushed a strand of hair out of the older hunter’s face, “How bad is it?”_

_“Oh, baby… Yeah lean over, just a little bit.”_

_Sam glanced at Lucifer behind Bree, where he was continuously making crude comments and gestures._

_“Bad.”_

_Bree sighed sadly and cupped Sam’s face with both hands. Her eyes flickered back-and-forth as she looked like she was waging a silent war with herself. After a moment of her eyes raking over Sam’s face, Bree spoke up again, “I can’t fix the wall that Castiel broke. But I can, maybe, give you a little bit of relief, even if it’s just for a few hours.” Bree reached into the bag hanging from her shoulder and pulled out a small vial with glittering, purple liquid, “I need you to take this.”_

_Sam looked deep into her beautiful, sea-glass colored eyes, searching for an answer to his impending question, “How do I know you’re real?”_

_Bree smiled at him sadly, “You don’t. But I do, and that’s just gonna have to be enough for the both of us.”_

_Sam took the vial from her and looked at it curiously, “What is it?”_

_“Do you trust me?” Bree whispered as she gently placed her hand over his. It was so small and soft compared to Sam’s rough and calloused fingers. Was the rest of her just as soft? God, how he wanted to touch her._

_Sam gave a tiny nod and closed his eyes as he tipped the glass back, swallowing the purple liquid. It tasted like pomegranate and pop-rocks combined with something else… African Dream Root, perhaps? Bree gently pressed her forehead to his and muttered an incantation in some language Sam couldn’t recognize right away; she spoke too softly. Almost immediately, however, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted, and the pounding pressure in Sam’s head dissipated. A comfortable warmth spread from his throat to his head, fingers, and toes. For the first time in literal months, the visions went away, and Lucifer was finally quiet._

_Without hesitation, Sam pressed his lips to Bree’s in a kiss, which she surprisingly reciprocated. Sam sighed as his body relaxed and their tongues began to dance together. It felt as if his body was simultaneously overwhelmed and relaxed, kind of like floating among ocean waves. Bree always smelled amazing but damn if she didn’t taste even better. Sam gently ran his hands up her thighs, savoring the soft feel of her skin as he pulled Bree into his lap and deepened the kiss. He could feel the heat radiating from her covered core against his crotch and thrust up slightly, desperate for friction and to feel more of her. Bree rocked against him, sighing and moaning into his mouth._

_Needing to catch his breath, Sam broke the kiss. When he opened his eyes to look at her, however, he found himself suddenly alone—Bree had simply vanished. Sam furrowed his brow in confusion. Had it all been in his head? But looking down, Sam saw that he still had the glass vial in his hand, as well as a raging hard-on. Letting out an equally tired and frustrated sigh, Sam fell back onto the bed, feeling exhaustion wash over him with the promise of a delicious and long-overdue sleep._

_“Thank you.”_

* * *

Bree watched the older hunter longingly before he disappeared into the kitchen. Immediately, she could hear him and Dean bantering back and forth, as they often did. Turning around, the lonely witch basked in the glow of the tree once more, enjoying the lights and scent of fresh pine. Despite all the effort she had put in with the decorations and the tree, Bree still felt awful. She thought—no, hoped—that distracting herself with something holiday related would cheer her up. In theory, it should have. So, then why did she still feel the familiar, empty pit that threatened to swallow her alive?

Bree rubbed her hands up and down her arms absentmindedly. Try as she might, she knew she would never be able to replicate the wonderful, holiday feeling her dad created every Christmas they were together. Why did she even bother? Everything would just return to the way it usually was tomorrow—Dean’s compliment would be long forgotten, and Sam would go back to his usual, indecisive pattering. What was the point of anything anymore?

* * *

Sam made his way to the bunker’s kitchen, freshly showered after his usual morning run. The tree that Bree set up the day before glistened beautifully within the library alcove. Several times, Sam had caught Dean admiring the witch’s handiwork, nodding in approval with a small smirk on his face. He never said anything though, not wanting to ruin what little holiday cheer his brother managed to find. Honestly, when Bree had suggested bringing a little bit of Christmas into the bunker, neither hunter had been prepared for how much it would affect them. Even anti-holiday Sam had to admit that all the little touches came together rather nicely, and really made the bunker feel like a home.

Rounding the entrance to the kitchen, Sam found Bree sitting at the table, nursing her usual morning cup of coffee as she thoughtfully flicked through an old box of Christmas cards. Her cappuccino-and-lilac-colored curls were tied away in a bird’s nest atop her head, though several stray pieces hung around her ears and neck. Once again, she had donned her favorite plum-colored pajama bottoms, one leg tucked under her while the other was bent close to her chest. No matter where she sat, Bree always seemed to curl up and nest. Did she ever sit properly?

“Mornin’, Bree. Uh… What’s all this?” Sam asked as he gestured towards the mess of cards and envelopes. It honestly looked like a Hallmark store had exploded all over the table.

“Hm? Oh, hey, Sam. They’re just some old Christmas cards,” she greeted, “When I was really little, my uh, my great-grandmother and my dad used to love sending and receiving holiday cards, and I guess got me into it too. The ones with family photos were Grandmommy’s favorites. It’s been a few years since I really thought about any of this.”

Sam sat down across from her after getting his own fresh cup of coffee and began perusing the box, “Did you save every single one?” 

“Yes and no… I’m admittedly a bit of a hoarder. But every card is a memory. Take this one,” Bree thumbed through the stack and handed Sam one that had a smiling family on the front. They all had matching red, plaid pajamas and the dogs had ribbons with the same pattern. “That was their first Christmas home after living in Nevada and Louisiana for five years.”

Sam stared at the card thoughtfully. Photos like this were bittersweet—a husband and wife, kids, two dogs—it was the sort of apple pie life that he had always wanted when growing up. Hell, deep down, maybe a little part of him still did. But after Jess, the one person Sam had actually pictured having that life with, he just couldn’t see it anymore. He was a hunter; this was his life and to drag someone else into it would be selfish.

“I, personally, prefer the more vintage-looking and watercolor ones. Daddy and Bobby even used to give me Christmas cards every year, too. Those and the photo cards were the only ones I held onto.”

Sam passed back the card as he took a sip of his coffee, “What about now?”

Bree paused, a quick flash of pain shooting across her face before shifting to a neutral expression, “I, uh… I haven’t received any for a long time.”

“Oh…” Sam quietly stared into the dark liquid in his mug while Bree fiddled with the card box. He was mentally kicking himself for asking that question, having clearly hit a nerve. After a few moments of awkward silence, Sam spoke up again, “Dean and I never received Christmas cards. We moved around too much and didn’t really have that many friends…”

“Well, maybe the Polar Express will bring you one this year,” she responded with a soft smile, making Sam melt a little.

“Please don’t waste your cards. We honestly wouldn’t know what to do with them,” Sam added, shaking his head.

“You’re supposed to keep them, Sam. Christmas cards can help bring in the holiday spirit. Plus, sometimes you can’t help but smile and feel warm inside knowing that someone thought of you,” Bree stated as she rested her chin in her hand.

Truthfully, Bree had already considered setting cards aside for each of the boys. Knowing now that neither of them had ever received one, Bree knew she would feel guilty if she didn’t include them. Now all that was left to do was figure out what to write inside, which was surprisingly difficult. What do you say to the two most infamous hunters in the business? To the men who have saved the world on numerous occasions, made Bree experience a rollercoaster of both good and bad emotions daily, and just happened to be bah-humbugs?

“Speaking of feeling warm…”

Bree unfolded herself and shuffled over to the coffee pot for another cup full. Typically, she went through about two or three cups every morning, diluted heavily with flavored creamer and her favorite zero-calorie sweetener. Sam lectured her on a regular basis about how unhealthy all that caffeine and added sugar really was. However, Bree always clapped back with the fact that the younger Winchester frequently drank red-eyes while his brother was considered a high-functioning alcoholic.

Pouring herself a fresh cup, Bree moseyed over to the fridge, the bottoms of her low-hanging pants dragging a little. Sam watched as she shuffled about, his eyes practically glued to her ample, round backside. Bree wasn’t exactly heavy, she just had a bit of soft curviness to her, and an ass for days. Sam fantasized about it so often—grabbing it, grinding against it, tasting it—to the point that it was mortifying. Apparently, Dean appreciated the view too because anytime the younger witch bent over, Dean’s eyes instantly locked on target. Sam gave his brother shit about it in the past, but naturally he already had a response ready: _“Hey, she may be squirrely, but damn if I’m not gonna appreciate a good ass.”_

The idea of his older brother staring after Bree made Sam horribly jealous. It didn’t exactly make sense, considering there wasn’t anything going on between them. Sure, they had shared a few… _passionate_ kisses in the past, ones that Sam still wished had gone so much further than they did. But those were years ago. Nowadays, things were frequently awkward between the hunter and the witch, despite the semi-frequent flirting. Between his own suppressed feelings and Dean constantly berating him, Sam was constantly stressed. He wanted to talk to Bree about it, explain his side of things. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to bring it up without scaring her away even more.

Sam was startled from his thoughts by a sudden, loud thunk on the table. Bree had finished glitzing up her coffee and dropped a jumbo bottle of flavored, holiday creamer in front of him.

“Help yourself, Sam.”

“Oh, no, I don’t—”

“Samuel Winchester, I am no fool. I may drink coffee like a fish, but there is no way that I go through an entire jumbo container of Limited Edition Eggnog Latte Coffee Creamer in less than four days,” Bree gave the hunter a knowing smirk as she settled her hands on her hips, “And Dean may like flavored coffee, but he drinks that shit black.”

Sam’s cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, and his ears began to burn. Sam thought he’d been pretty sneaky about using her creamers, knowing full well that if either Bree or Dean had caught him, he’d never hear the end of it. Unfortunately, it looked like his stealth skills had grown a tad rusty.

“So, uh… who-who were you planning to send cards to this year?” Sam asked, attempting to divert the conversation as he sheepishly added creamer to his cup. Bree quirked an eyebrow in amusement and sat back down, shuffling cards as she searched for her list.

“Well,” Bree began, “there’s Jody and the girls, Donna, Garth and Bess, the Banes twins, one or two cousins, maybe some old contacts…”

“Well what about your mom?” Sam suggested.

Big mistake.

Immediately, Bree went stone faced as she pursed her lips into a thin line. Her usually bright, gem-colored eyes turned cold and her entire body went rigid. Before Sam could even comprehend what was happening, Bree gathered up her cards and rushed out of the kitchen, mumbling something about not having gotten enough sleep.

“Wait! Bree!”

It was useless; Bree had already rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight. Sam hadn’t meant to trigger that kind of reaction and was definitely feeling a bit of recoil. He sat alone for a moment, deep in thought and genuinely confused. In all the time that the Winchesters had known and hunted with her, Bree had made almost zero mention of her parents or childhood, leaving them knowing next to nothing about her. It, admittedly, had become a subject of contention between Sam and Dean.

Years ago, back when they had first met Bree, Bobby had told Sam and Dean the bare basics about Bree’s father, but not much else. They knew that he had been a hunter and a good friend of Bobby’s, enough so that he had named Bobby as Bree’s godfather. But, aside from that, he didn’t tell them much else. Whenever either of the boys asked, Bobby would gruffly tell them to either back off, or to go ask her themselves. Sam often questioned if something traumatic had happened, and once again found his curiosity piqued.


	3. Chapter 3

That afternoon, Dean announced that he was making a quick supply run in town, and Bree leapt at the opportunity to escape the bunker for a bit. She told Dean that she wanted to mail out holiday cards and maybe get some fresh air. In reality, she was looking for any excuse to avoid any more questions from Sam. Bree may have been somewhat uneasy about Dean, but she was willing to deal if it meant not having any more invasive questions.

Naturally, Dean dug in his heels and was adamantly against the younger witch coming along. He had argued that, between the British Men of Letters and the rogue Grand Coven witches, bringing Bree along was a liability. She still had a bounty on her head and, if he was being perfectly honest, Dean didn’t entirely trust her not to try something. 

After about half an hour of her incessant begging and pleading, Dean finally gave in. Perhaps he was feeling a little bit of holiday spirit and goodwill towards man (well, woman). Or perhaps he had finally had enough of how pitiful Bree was acting. Regardless, Dean granted her request, leaving Sam alone in the bunker and, admittedly, disappointed.

The drive into main street Lebanon had been uncomfortably quiet. It had been months since the pair had actually been in any sort of space without Sam around to referee, and Bree didn’t entirely know what to say. Dean would glance at her out the corner of his eye every now and again, while Bree stared awkwardly out the window. The tension between them became so thick it could be cut with a knife. It honestly reminded Bree of when her mother would drag her around to run errands but act as if she weren’t there, only adding to her discomfort. Thankfully, it took no time at all for the pair to reach their destination.

Once out of the car, the mood between the hunter and the witch improved tremendously. Each of them grabbed a basket and went their separate ways to roam the store, though Dean occasionally would subtly backtrack to make sure Bree was still there. Eventually, they reconvened in the candy aisle, as a much-heated debate over candy cane flavors ensued. Dean was more of a classicist, declaring matter-of-factly that peppermint was the one, true candy cane flavor. Bree, on the other hand, argued that peppermint was reserved strictly for hot cocoa and old people and that the best ones were fruit-flavored.

The two of them bickered relentlessly to the front of the store, at the check-out line, and back out into the parking lot. Once back in the comfort of the impala, the argument then escalated to all varieties of candy.

“Licorice is _disgusting_.”

Dean gasped dramatically, causing Bree to laugh, “You take that back, you heathen.”

“No! It’s nasty! And tastes like ass and dirt.”

“Bullshit! It’s delicious and a classic candy!” Dean retorted with his mouth full of the sweet in question.

“Pfft. If you’re old or dead, maybe,” Bree sassed back with a smirk

“See, this is why no one likes witches,” Dean pouted.

“Why? Because I hate licorice?” she mocked before taking a bite of cookies and cream Santa.

“YES!”

Jovial laughter filled the car. For the first time in months, even since perhaps before coming to the Winchesters for help, Bree laughed wholeheartedly. Even Dean couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. This was the best that Bree and Dean had gotten along in _years_ , as well as the longest the pair had gone without trying to rip each other’s heads off. It was… refreshing, actually. Dean glanced over at the petite blonde next to him, studying her—fluffy, messy waves tossed back in laughter, crinkled nose, and surprisingly bright blue-green eyes. 

When was the last time he had seen her laugh? Or smile? Dean furrowed his brow slightly in thought. Looking back, this was honestly the happiest and most carefree she’d looked in years. The last time she’d even remotely smiled like that, Bobby had been joking around with her before shit hit the fan with the Leviathans. Hell, she’d never even smiled for Sam that way, not since she came crawling back into their life, bloodied, bruised, and needing help. 

She’d basically been a shell of her former self, not that Dean would ever say anything. He’d noticed, sure, but his distrust and suspicion of Bree’s past always prevented him from letting himself care more about her. And he did care, more than he’d like to admit, but he couldn’t risk letting secrecy bite them in the ass, and he sure as hell was not about to risk Sam getting used or hurt again. If Bobby could see the way they were now, he’d probably ream all of them a new asshole. And maybe he’d been right—maybe Bree did deserve the benefit of the doubt. But years of shit hitting the fan kept Dean from letting her any closer than an arm’s length.

Dean shook himself free of the thought and focused his attention back on the road, taking an overly aggressive bite of licorice as he did. In the blink of an eye, the pair was pulling up to the Lebanon Post Office. Throwing the car in park, they made their way inside—Dean going to check his and Sam’s PO Box, while Bree scurried over to the outgoing drop-box before checking her own mail.

“Got anything good?” Dean asked as they walked back to the impala.

“Well, I got a card from my great-aunt. Just had hip surgery.”

Dean hummed in response, “Anything else?” When she didn’t answer, however, Dean turned to look back at her. 

Bree stood frozen in place, staring blankly at an envelope addressed to her in a familiar scrawl. Despite having been years since she last laid eyes on it, the penmanship was unmistakable. The letter felt unnaturally heavy in her hand, which trembled slightly. Bree’s mind was suddenly spiraling and a cold numbness settled over her, and not just because of the chill winter air.

Surprised to find Bree rigid, Dean called out to her, “You alright kid?”

Bree snapped out of her trance at his question and quickly shredded the unopened letter, forcefully stuffing it in a nearby trash can. “I’m fine.” 

Bree stalked back to the Impala, refusing to look at the older Winchester, and climbed into the car with a slam. Dean stared after her for a moment, confused by the sudden change in demeanor. Curiosity piqued, he subtly plucked the letter remnants from the receptacle and shoved them in his pocket, before making his way to join her.

The drive back to the bunker was even more uncomfortable than the drive into town. Any niceties that had developed during their outing had now long-since dissipated. Bree sat erect and stone-faced, jaw set as she silently stared out the window deep in thought. Dean kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, concerned about the disconnected look in her eye. Admittedly, after the display outside the Post Office, he wasn’t entirely sure what to say. 

In all the years he had known her, Bree had never acted like this. Facetious and snarky, yet mysterious and secretive, she had always seemed to have a weird sort of control over herself. Or, at the very least, the parts of her she had allowed Dean and Sam to see; Bree was a surprisingly private person. She may have put up a wall of ice as cold as the Antarctic between them, but Dean had seen small chinks in her armor. As brief as it might have been, however, Dean couldn’t help but wonder why.

“So… Unwanted mail?” Dean inquired cautiously, testing the waters.

“Yep,” Bree continued to stare out the window.

“Do ya wanna—” 

“Nope.”

Dean paused at the terse response. If he was being perfectly honest, he wasn’t as good at handling distressed women or being emotionally open as his brother. Sure, he was a smooth-talker and definitely a ladies’ man, having far more success than Sam in the bedroom department. But once they caught an attitude, Dean floundered. Before he could come up with anything else to say, Bree continued, as if reading his mind.

“Mind your business, Dean. And stop asking questions.”

Her tone was harsh and icy, something which he had not expected. Dean side-eyed her awkwardly, balking under the tension in the car.

“Okay then…”

A short time later the pair returned safely to the bunker. Baby had barely stopped before Bree jumped out and made a beeline for the iron door that led inside. Dean sighed, letting himself decompress from the tense drive before following suit. He was not looking forward to the interrogation from his brother that he knew would ensue. 

From where Sam sat at one of the library tables, he could hear the familiar creaking of the bunker’s door open and shut. The entire time they were gone, Sam dug through several news articles for cases or any signs of the witches that hunted Bree. Unfortunately, he once again came up empty. Looking up at the sound of the door, Sam was surprised to see Bree come flying down the stairs.

“Hey! Get anything good?” Sam greeted. Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion, however, as she barreled onward, either unable to hear him or just flat-out ignoring him. “Bree? Bree!”

Dean came through the door next, eyes wide in exasperation and sighing heavily as he descended the stairs.

“Dude! What did you do!?”

“Hey, I didn’t do anything,” Dean answered defensively as he crossed the war room. Leaning back to ensure their now tempestuous companion wasn’t still within hearing range, Dean fished the shredded letter from his pocket, “Apparently she didn’t like what she got in the mail because she freaked and ripped it up. Didn’t even open it.”

Sam took the bits of letter from his brother, a puzzled expression on his face, and rearranged them so the envelope was legible. “Treegap, Ohio,” Sam looked up at Dean, who merely shrugged as he took off his coat, “Did she say anything about it?”

“Nope. Shut down and told me to mind my own business. Thought she was stroking out for a minute there.”

“Then… we should do what she asked and leave it alone,” Sam stated definitively as he leaned back away from the table. Dean, however, was not satisfied with that answer.

“Maybe, but little Miss Witch is definitely hiding something. All these years and we barely know jack about her? C’mon Sammy…” Dean said with a disgruntled expression, “I get it, you’re sweet on her, but open your eyes, man!” 

Sam gave his brother a warning glare. Before he could open his mouth to speak, however, Dean cut him off.

“And yeah, I know Bobby swore up and down that we could trust her, but something’s up. Why isn’t she in any of Bobby’s journals? And why hadn’t we met her all those years we got shipped off to Sioux Falls while dad was on a hunt? I’m telling’ ya, something’s fishy about this whole thing. She’s hiding something, and I wanna know what it is before it comes back to bite us in the ass, just like everything else.”

With that, Dean picked up the bags of groceries and strode towards the kitchen, leaving Sam alone once more. As much as he wanted to argue with Dean about it and give Bree the benefit of the doubt, he knew his brother was right. More and more lately, there had been a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. Why didn’t they know much about her? Anytime conversation drifted towards family or personal life, Bree would shy away and change the subject. It made Sam increasingly restless—just what was she hiding?

Bree remained mostly tucked up in her room for the next day or so, only coming out to eat and use the bathroom. When Sam and Dean did catch a glimpse of her, she looked tired and refused to give more than one-word answers. She was now avoiding both brothers, creating even more tension among the bunker’s residents. 

Sam had managed to tape the letter back together, his curiosity having finally gotten the better of him. Once able to read the whole thing, he was surprised and concerned by its contents. Drunken ramblings and religious delusions were thrown up all over the pages—constant repetition about Bree needing to find God because she’s going to burn in Hell, endlessly berating about her appearance, emotionally abusive language, and so on. Sam had a sneaking suspicion that this wasn’t the first time their reclusive companion had received a letter like this, and highly doubted that it would be the last.

When he showed Dean the letter, he was just as floored. The brothers discussed it in private, not wanting to upset Bree further with any questions. However, they both knew that it would only be a matter of time before they would need to address the elephant in the room. 

“Karen Wildes? Who the hell is that?”

“Her mother, maybe? When we talked about mailing Christmas cards, Bree tore off after I mentioned her. Guess we know why,” Sam responded.

“Yeah seriously…” Dean nodded, looking over the letter once again, “Can you imagine growing up with this? I mean, I know we didn’t have the best childhoods but woof.”

“Yeah, no. Probably best not to mention it, though.”

“Oh, hell no. We don’t need to poke the bear here,” Dean agreed.

“So, what do we do now?” Sam asked, looking up at his brother.

Dean pondered for a minute, his arms crossed over his chest and one hand rubbing the scruff on his chin, “We look for a case. Distract her for a bit, get her calmed down again. At least until we get a ring on Lucifer.”

“You sure that’s the best idea?” Sam questioned with concern, “She still has that hit out on her by the Grand Coven.”

“True. But staying here isn’t helping her right now. Plus, she’ll be with both of us, so we can protect her.”

“I dunno, Dean…”

“Look, I don’t like it, either. I still think the bunker is the safest place for her. But when we were out on the supply run? That was the happiest I’d seen her in a long time. It… I, just…” Dean let out a heavy puff of air through his nose as he fidgeted in place, “I kinda felt guilty, okay?” 

Sam’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. That was certainly something he hadn’t been expecting to hear. 

“Look, just… Shut up. I just think she could use the break, is all,” Dean dismissed, obviously uncomfortable.

Sam simply nodded his head, “Alright, then. I’ll see if I can find us a case.”

Later that afternoon, however, everything took a turn. Sam and Dean rushed off to investigate the death of a CEO whom Lucifer had been possessing, only to run into Castiel and Crowley at the morgue. This led them to an archbishop in St. Louis who had been Lucifer’s next vessel. Not long after, much to everyone’s dismay, Crowley popped up in the bunker with news of Satan’s current vessel—one Jefferson Rooney, President of the United States. The news had barely had an hour or two to sink in before the situation got horribly complicated. 

“Something’s happened. Something…” Cas stated in a panic while Sam and Dean held him upright, “Angel radio… There are so many voices.”

“What are they saying?”

“There’s been a massive surge in celestial energy. A Nephilim has come into being. It’s the offspring of an angel and a human,” Cas explained.

“And that’s big news?” Dean asked in confusion.

“Yes, but the power to produce this is immense. It’s much, much greater than a typical angel.”

Realization dawned on Sam’s face, “Lucifer.”

“Lucifer?” Dean asked in disbelief, “I didn’t know he was dating.”

“Alright, so what now?” Sam asked, looking between the hunter and the angel.

“We head out to Indianapolis, try to cut Lucifer off on his charity trail. I’m gonna grab Bree. Her being a witch can only help,” Dean stated before taking off towards the east wing bedrooms. He’d barely rounded the second corner when he collided with Bree, catching her arms before she could fall on her butt.

“Dean! What happened? I heard glass shatter and it felt like an earthquake ran through.”

“Whoa, hold on, wait… You _felt_ that?”

Bree shook her head in confusion, “Felt what?”

“Lucifer is possessing the president—” 

“President Rooney!?” Bree interrupted, eyes wide in shock.

“There’s more—he’s just sired a Nephilim. The devil’s gonna have a baby.”

“Oh, God… Please tell me you’re joking…”

“Don’t I wish. Look, this is a code red, all hands on deck situation. We’re gonna need all the help we can get,” Dean stated.

“Right,” Bree nodded with a sigh, “Give me ten minutes. I’ll go pack a bag and meet you in the garage.”

“Deal.”

The pair took off in opposite directions—Dean back towards where his brother and Cas were waiting and Bree to her bedroom. Shutting the door, she turned back to the mess of wrapping paper and holiday things that covered her desk. Following the incident at the Post Office, Bree had locked herself in her room to avoid the Winchesters’ questions. But after a day or two, she had thrown herself head-first into the holidays and making sure everyone’s presents were wrapped. Admittedly, she may have fallen down a bit of a rabbit hole.

Wiping her hands on her pants, Bree rushed about the room, hurriedly packing a few days’ worth of clothes, and tripping on her pants as she did. She didn’t quite know how long they would be gone for, so she figured it was better to overpack slightly than under pack. Her head was buzzing with anxiety as she continued to process what Dean had just told her. She really shouldn’t have been surprised that Lucifer had jumped the president, especially after he got a taste of the limelight as Vince Vincente. It hadn’t even entirely sunk in that this would be her first case in months. 

In record time, Bree had packed her bag and stripped out of her pajamas, changing instead into an oversized sweater, maxi dress, and booties. Rushing out the door, Bree hurriedly made her way to the garage. Once out on the road, Sam called up the King of Hell with an update and gave instruction. When Dean said that it was “all hands on deck,” he wasn’t joking. 

“Yeah, and hey, Crowley? Uh, find out from your government mole if there’s a girlfriend or a mistress or a favorite hooker. Someone we don’t know about… Got it,” Sam hung up the phone and let out a strained sigh, “All right. Crowley and Rowena will meet us in Indianapolis. Do we have a plan?”

Dean shook his head in response, “Impeach LOTUS and find Rosemary’s Baby.”

Bree nodded slowly in response, already regretting her decision to join the boys. She had never particularly liked hunting. Bree had always been ultra-sensitive to ghosts and spirits, among other things. Being a witch only served to amplify that sensitivity. Couple that with having been out on the road for years by herself, and it was a recipe for fear, one which she tended to keep to herself knowing full well that Dean would only give her a hard time about it. But Lucifer? Demons? Angels? It all went way over her head.

Bree shifted uncomfortably in her seat and chanced a quick glance at Castiel, who sat in the backseat beside her. She knew that the Winchesters trusted the angel implicitly, but she had always been wary around him. It sure as hell didn’t help that the first time the two of them met back in 2010, Cas declared her an abomination and kept trying to convince both Bobby and the Winchesters to get rid of her. Thankfully, Bobby put his foot down and laid down the law—as long as he was alive, Bree was there to stay. Oh, the irony.

Her relationship with the angel seemingly improved over time, to the point where he was almost nice to her. However, if Bree’s 27 years of life had taught her anything, it was that looks could be deceiving. No one could be trusted, and the people closest to you are always the ones to hurt you the most. So, she had built up a wall around herself and kept everyone at arm’s length, or tried to, anyway.

The Impala had just rounded an intersection when a black SUV came up from behind, sirens blaring and lights flashing. 

“Aw, crap. Alright. Stay here, we got this,” Dean threw over his shoulder as he pulled the car onto the shoulder while the SUV pulled in front. Turning off the ignition, Dean and Sam both climbed out of the impala and met three men in suits.

“Gentlemen, is there a problem?”

“Federal Agents, guys,” Dean stated with a flash of his FBI badge, “We need to keep going.”

The shorter of the men scoffed in response, “And I need six-grand by Saturday, but that ain’t happening either.”

“You guys know who you’re talking to?” Sam asked, taken aback slightly.

“Winchesters,” the man stated matter-of-factly, “You make those toy badges in craft class on the psych ward? Nice car, by the way. Really stands out.”

The shorter man suddenly pulled a gun out of his waistband. Dean was quick to react, however. Grabbing the man’s arm, Dean swung and punched him in the face.

“Hey. Wait a second now,” Sam raised his hands in defense.

The other two men marched forward. Grabbing one, Sam slammed him into the Impala, then turned and punched the second man. Bree gasped in surprise and tried to rush out of the car to help the boys. However, Cas placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook his head, silently telling her to let the Winchesters handle the situation. The two men and Sam continue to quarrel while Dean and the shorter guy continue to struggle over the gun. However, all it took was one split second of Dean getting distracted by Sam’s fight for him to lose his grip on the gun.

“Stop! Don’t move!” he shouted, pointing the gun at Dean.

Seeing the gun aimed at his brother, Sam instantly let go of the man he had in a headlock. Raising their hands in surrender, the Winchesters glare at the three men in suits. Upon seeing the shift in the situation, Cas climbed out and walked behind the Impala, Bree hot on his heels.

“Bree…”

“Cas, don’t,” Dean warned as he held his arm out in front of the angel.

Just then, a black luxury sedan came to a stop behind them, Jazz music blaring from the speakers. The driver smoothly stepped out of the car, grenade launcher in-hand. Seeing the launcher, everyone in the group ducked for cover—the Winchesters and Bree on the passenger side of the impala while the men attempted to run for the field. Meanwhile, Cas just stood in the middle of the road, watching quizzically as the SUV was blown up and caught fire. 

“You, angel. Wipe their memories,” the newcomer ordered as he strolled forward, his voice thick with a British accent. The leader of the three suited men attempted to heave himself up, only to be kicked in the face by the British man.

“U.S. government plates. Elite dogcatcher level. Someone special wants you,” he commented, turning towards the Winchesters, Bree, and Castiel, who all now stood together in the street, “Whose hydrant have you lads been tinkling on?”

“I’m sorry. Who the hell are you?” Dean demanded, a bit shaken by the explosion.

“Oh, where are my manners? Arthur Ketch. British Men of Letters.”


	4. Chapter 4

"No, no. You're making it up. It's impossible," Kelly Kline shook her head in denial. Comparatively, she was taking the news of Lucifer possessing the president better than most, albeit still not well.

After Ketch had saved the Winchesters, Castiel, and Bree from the secret service agents, the group had migrated to a more secluded location, away from the highway. Apparently, before they had left the bunker, Sam attempted to call Mick Davies of the British Men of Letters. However, he had gotten cold feet and hung up after only a ring or two. Believing the Winchesters to be in danger, Mick sent Ketch to assist them and hopefully encourage relations between the American hunters and the British. Naturally, this did nothing to sway the group's suspicions, especially with the previous encounter with Toni Bevell still fresh on their minds.

While Ketch gave the Winchesters and Cas his sales pitch, Bree hung back a little in an effort to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Sam and Dean weren't the only ones to have a history with the organization—while in Europe, attempting to deal with the uprising, fanatic witches of the Grand Coven, Bree landed on the British Men of Letters' radar after a hunt went sour. Thanks to her particular brand of magic and being a self-made escape artist, she'd successfully managed to evade capture by the skin of her teeth. Despite having never met him before the incident with the Secret Service agents, Bree knew of Arthur Ketch's reputation. To say that he terrified her was a gross understatement.

Unfortunately, the boys were genuinely impressed by all the shiny toys Ketch kept in his arsenal. It shouldn't have been all that surprising, considering how excited Dean tended to get over grenade launchers. But when Ketch brought out a shiny, metallic, egg-shaped device with various symbols and runes etched into it—the "hyperbolic pulse generator", he called it—Sam's interest had been piqued. 

According to Ketch, the device rendered exorcisms obsolete, driving demons and, hypothetically, angels from their vessels with the use of a magical force. Bree could only recognize a few of the symbols as witch-script, with the rest appearing to be either Enochian or a hybrid between the two. Bearing in mind that the British Men of Letters combined magic with technology to eradicate any and all supernatural threats, it made sense. Upon the boys' insistence, Ketch somewhat hesitantly agreed to lend them the device, as a show of good faith. However, Sam and Dean refused to offer any inclinations as to why the device was needed or the Lucifer situation.

That brought the ragtag group of hunters here, to some motel on the outskirts of Indianapolis, attempting to once again throw Lucifer back into the cage. It would be no easy feat, by any means. Luckily, they had the help of Crowley, the King of Hell, and Rowena. Step one of the plan involved getting the would-be-mother of Lucifer's child on board; easier said than done.

"You-you can't. He's the  _ president _ ," Kelly stuttered.

"He was, but now… Tell me he hasn't been acting different," Sam coaxed patiently.

Kelly shook her head in denial, "Jeff's just been under a lot of stress. He's—"

"Wrong. He's the devil," Crowley interrupted, "Horns, pitchfork, the whole nine."

"Crowley! Not helping!" Sam growled over his shoulder. Crowley rolled his eyes and retreated into the adjacent room, where the table with Rowena and Bree 's spell work sat.

Bree phased out of the conversation, as she often did as of late, staring blankly at a spot on the ground. They'd not even fully kicked off yet, and she already felt like she was underwater. She'd never admitted it out loud, but truthfully Bree  _ hated _ hunting. The only reason she had stuck with it for so long was that it was the glue that had kept her and Bobby together, giving her some semblance of familiarity for the way things were before. Plus, she couldn't just stand by while innocent people were hurt. Dean could be suspicious of her all he wanted; it didn't change the fact that Bree was as much of a bleeding heart as him and Sam, if not more. It wasn't exactly like she was necessarily good at anything else, to begin with. So, with no foreseeable future or marketable skills, what else was she to do?

Unfortunately, this was Lucifer they were about to contend with; the devil, himself. Bree hadn't been around when the Winchesters contended with the fallen angel the first time. Hell, she didn't even meet the pair of hunters until well after Sam had finally gotten his soul back. In hindsight, this was probably the main reason why there had been so much contention between her and Dean. Bree had seemingly shown up out of nowhere when, in reality, Bobby had purposefully kept her away from the action. It also didn't help that she and Bobby had been apart for almost a decade, not reuniting until only a year or two before the apocalypse had kicked off.

Bree was pulled from her thoughts when the bible Cas had been holding caught fire after Kelly placed her hand on it. If there was any remaining doubt in the presidential aide's mind regarding the paternity of her unborn child, it was certainly gone now. Dean grabbed a nearby trash can and held it out for Cas to drop the flaming book into before dosing it in water from a pitcher.

"No… oh, no…"

"Does he even know you're knocked up?" Dean asked bluntly as he dropped the trash can.

"Yes. He-he said that he was thrilled. He said it was the only time he ever created anything."

Sam and Dean exchanged looks briefly before Sam continued, "Kelly, we need your help."

Kelly ended up being surprisingly onboard with the boys' plan—she would call and bait Lucifer into coming to the motel. Once there, the group would ambush him, and Sam would use the hyperbolic pulse generator to expel him from President Rooney. Meanwhile, Rowena would complete the spell that she and Bree had prepared, thus sending Lucifer back to the pits of hell and trapping him in the cage once more. It was honestly a solid plan, in theory, but then again, since when did anything ever go smoothly for the Winchesters?

Before he came into the motel room, Secret Service did a sweep for anything that would threaten the president's safety. In the next room, Crowley, Sam, Dean, Rowena, and Bree all waited silently for them to finish. Kelly remained while Cas hid in the closet by the door the agents entered through, ready to wipe or alter memories as needed.

Reaching out, Rowena gently touched Bree 's arm and, making sure no one else could hear, whispered, "Are ye doing alright, love? Looked like you were away with the fairies for a moment there."

Bree froze momentarily beneath the older witch's gaze, concern evident on the redhead's face. Recovering quickly, she offered Rowena a half-smile and reassurance, "Yeah, I'm alright. Just ready for this to be over."

"Oh, I'm with you there, lass."

Bree watched her for a moment, studying her before turning her attention back to the door to the adjacent room. She was unaccustomed to someone expressing any genuine interest in her well-being. It was endearing, in a way, even if Rowena's loyalties were still somewhat questionable. 

After her dealings with the Grand Coven extremists, Bree had understandably grown to be wary of other witches, although Rowena had seemed to take a genuine liking to her. The two witches tended to keep this under wraps, mostly to avoid any further suspicion from Dean while also guaranteeing mutual protection from the other's enemies. If nothing else, it provided them both with valuable magical materials—Rowena passed spells and knowledge on to Bree. In return, Bree provided her with various ingredients and foraged goods that she accumulated from her time spent overseas.

The double doors adjoining the two rooms opened briefly as Sam quickly switched places with Castiel, slipping out with the device meant to force Lucifer out of the president. In a matter of minutes, the group could hear Lucifer enter the other room and converse briefly with Kelly. After she reaffirmed that she would not be keeping the baby, everything quickly kicked into action.

As soon as Lucifer lunged for Kelly and began choking her, Sam burst from the bathroom and recited the chant as instructed by Ketch. Hearing the roar from the sudden wind and seeing the light shine through the cracks in the doors, Dean burst into the room. Lucifer flung his arm out to blast back the older Winchester, but nothing happened. The device's uproar grew louder, and soon light bulbs from all around the room burst as a result.

"Rowena, now!"

Adding the final ingredient to the copper bowl, she began to chant, "Mah tay ez lah say tah!"

Glowing cracks began to appear on Lucifer's skin as the spells pulled him out of his vessel. "This isn't over, Sam!"

"Go to Hell!"

The force from the hyperbolic pulse generator was almost overwhelming, forcing everyone to hang on while Sam was forced to his knees. Diving into the room, Bree crawled beneath the blast over to where Sam was kneeling against the bathroom door. Grabbing onto him, she quickly muttered a spell, her eyes glowing purple as Sam felt his body instantly stabilize. The pair exchanged looks briefly as Rowena continued her chant. Suddenly, white light similar to the glow of angel grace came from Lucifer's vessel's mouth, swirling through the air before disappearing down a floor vent. After a moment, everything went silent, and President Rooney collapsed on the floor, finally freed of Lucifer's influence.

Cas rushed forward and pressed his fingers to the president's head, "He's alive. He won't remember a thing."

A collective sigh of relief was let out from everyone in both rooms. Sam collapsed against the bathroom, accidentally dragging Bree with him before she finally released her vice grip on his jacket. Sam dropped his hand to her thigh absentmindedly, a tad higher than expected, causing the pair to stare at each other as they took heaving breaths.

"Oh, Jeff. Oh my god," Kelly slid from where she had been huddled on the sofa to where the president laid unconscious, "Jeff? Oh my god."

"We gotta go," Sam stated, pulling himself away from Bree and pointing to Cas as he stood, "Get her out of here. Go!"

"Wait, wait—" Kelly protested as the angel pulled her to her feet.

"Kelly, you've gotta go. GO!"

Cas led her back through the other motel room. Unsurprisingly, Crowley and Rowena had already disappeared, leaving only the Winchesters and Bree.

Dean sighed and smiled, "We got him… We got Lucifer."

Sam returned his brother's smile with a nod, any remaining tension finally leaving his body. Bree pulled herself up, brushing off her maxi dress as she stood and trying to settle her breathing. On the floor, the president began to rouse, catching the trio's attention. 

Gliding forward, Sam squatted next to him, "Mr. President?"

"Okay. Alright. Take it easy there, tiger," Dean soothed as he crouched next to his brother.

Bree watched on quietly, choosing not to over-crowd the slowly stirring man. Glancing at the front window momentarily, she gasped when she saw the secret service agents returning, guns drawn. Before she could warn the boys, however, the agents burst through the door.

"On your feet!"

"Hands on your head!"

Seizing the opportunity, Cas snuck Kelly out the adjacent room just as the agents entered the one where the Winchesters, Bree, and President Rooney were. Panicked, Bree took a step back into the bathroom and dug through the hidden pockets of her dress, looking for a coin or hex bag; anything to help them with the situation.

"Okay. Listen, we were just trying to—"

"Shut up!" one of the agents interrupted, pointing the gun in Sam's face.

Finally, Bree found what she was looking for and threw a tiny, violet hex bag at the agents. One of the men caught it just as the witch uttered a spell Rowena taught her, freezing both agents in place as if they were statues. Sam and Dean gaped in surprise, exchanging looks before turning to look back at Bree.

"Okay, go! I just bought us 20 minutes!" she exclaimed as she shooed the brothers out through the other room, grabbing her hobo bag as they passed and following hot on their heels.

Racing across the parking lot, the trio slid into the Impala and tore out onto the road, kicking up gravel and dirt as they sped away. Castiel and Kelly were in a separate car ahead of them, having pulled away from the motel just as the three hunters were bolting from the rooms. After about 5 minutes or so, Dean called Cas and made plans to meet back at the bunker; they would figure out the Kelly situation from there.

For the next hour, Dean kept glancing at the rearview, knuckles white and body tense as he watched for any government or police vehicles. Not a word was spoken between the three hunters, tension thick in the air as if they had been thrown underwater. Once he was eventually satisfied that they were safely out of dodge, the older Winchester finally relaxed and turned on the radio. Sam and Dean released shaky breaths, relieved to be in the clear, and began animatedly discussing their success.

In the backseat, Bree struggled to decompress; this had been her first so-called hunt in literal months. Naturally, yet equally frustratingly, it was taking her longer than usual to settle down. Quietly resting her cheek against the passenger window, Bree let the cold glass ground her as she watched fields and trees fly past. Slowly, she began disconnecting from her surroundings, the rumble of the Impala's engine and deep baritones of Sam's and Dean's voices melting into a hum as she became lost in thought. Bree felt herself drift into a dizzy haze, mentally exhausted and her body becoming increasingly heavy. It had become such a frequent sensation as of late that it was almost comforting.

"Yeah, we'd probably be in a federal prison right now," Sam scoffed in response to a comment from his brother.

Glancing at the passenger mirror, his smile quickly faded when he saw the vacant and somber expression on Bree 's face, her breath rhythmically fogging the window. Sam furrowed his brow in concern and tilted his head as he studied her. For weeks now, she had grown increasingly distant, having moments where she was seemingly detached from everything around her before pulling herself back into place. Even before her supply run with Dean Bree had begun exiting with a sort of numbness. Sam wasn't the only one who noticed either—Cas had pulled him to the side, back at the motel room, while Rowena and Bree prepared the spell to send Lucifer back to the cage.

It was something that had begun to weigh heavily on Sam's mind, although Dean didn't necessarily share his concerns. Anytime he brought her up to the elder Winchester, Dean would dismiss him and argue that Bree had always been moody before tearing into him about being too invested. But Sam couldn't help it—he worried too much and cared too much, especially about the younger witch. Although  _ apparently, _ being "troubled" was just a key aspect of his personality.

Sam was inexplicably drawn to Bree. He didn't know why, but ever since they met at Bobby's almost seven years ago, Sam had been utterly entranced. She was a mystery to him, full of secrets and surprises. Every time he thought he had even a clue as to the true nature of the younger witch, Bree said or did something that made him do a double-take. Honestly, if it weren't for Dean, Sam would have fully pursued her romantically years ago. But Dean was family, and Sam was not about to ruin his relationship with his brother over a girl, not again.

It certainly left Sam in a predicament—torn between his loyalty to Dean while longing to get closer to Bree. Their moment in Indiana had left him borderline addicted, craving the euphoria that her kiss had filled him with but never being able to replicate. It wasn't for lack of trying; Amelia, that waitress in Oregon, a handful of one-night stands, none of them could match that sensation left by Bree. Hell, even the first kiss they shared, just before she left to assist her friends overseas, had left him winded.

* * *

_ "Alright, you got everything?" Bobby asked, looking down at his goddaughter. _

_ "Yep. Clothes, guns, borax, hex bags…" Bree prattled as she turned to face the ornery hunter, "I'm all set, and I cast a cloaking spell on my bags, so they'll go through airport security without getting flagged." _

_ "Journal? Phone? Knife?" _

_ "Flask, herbs, silver, and dead man's blood. All packed," she retorted, giving Bobby a pointed look. _

_ "You know I gotta fuss over you. Somebody ought to." _

_ Bree smiled fondly, "I know, and I love you for it. I promise I'll call when I land, and I'll check in with regular updates. Oh! I almost forgot!" she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out three, small, black, hex bags. "These should give you some basic protection, although I can't guarantee that they'll be as effective as I want, all things considered." _

_ "It's a little hard to ward against primordial, evil, goo," Bobby agreed with a smile, "Just watch your back, darlin'. You know I worry about you and these two idjits," he added with a nod towards Sam and Dean, who both chuckled. _

_ "I know how to go off the radar, remember? I'll be fine. Hopefully, this will only be for a week or two." _

_ Finally conceding, Bobby scooped the smaller hunter in for a hug. It was endearing how much he fussed over her. Sam and Dean couldn't help but smile at Bobby's over-protectiveness; he had a definite soft spot for her. _

_ Breaking away, Bree turned to the Winchesters, who were waiting patiently to the side, giving Bobby and her their space in the small cabin. "You two… Do not hesitate to call if you need a spell or whatever, including you, pissant," she instructed, eyeing Dean. _

_ Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes, "Yeah, whatever. Hurry up and leave so the adults can get some actual work done. Ya know, fighting Leviathans." _

_ "Cute," she commented, scrunching up her nose before going in for a hug goodbye. Pressing close to his ear, Bree hissed, "If anything happens to Bobby, I'll rip your fucking dick through your throat." _

_ Dean went wide-eyed in a combination of shock and terror, releasing Bree and stepping away to stand next to Bobby. Whether it was a protective gesture or one seeking protection remains up for debate. Finally, she turned to Sam, who handed Bree her overnight bag with what she could swear was a smile. _

_ "Be careful, and please let us know if you need back-up." _

_ "I'm always careful," she teased with a grin. _

_ Sam huffed out a laugh and shook his head. Bree stood on her tiptoes and attempted to meet Sam's height for a hug goodbye. Considering that she was just shy of a foot shorter than him, this proved a tad difficult and resulted in Sam having to stoop down anyway. _

_ After lingering a little longer than they should, the pair separated and exchanged awkward smiles. With a nod and a wave, Bree stepped around the tall hunter and reached for the door. She'd just opened the main door when she paused and chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. Having sufficiently contemplated her next move, she turned back around and pulled Sam down to her by the front of his flannel, capturing his lips in a kiss. _

_ Only hesitating for a second, Sam quickly overcame the initial shock and deepened the kiss, setting a hand on her arm to steady himself. Bobby and Dean watched in disbelief, exchanging simultaneously perturbed and surprised looks before turning back to the couple. Sam moved his free hand to cup her cheek, letting himself get lost in her as their lips melded together perfectly. Pulling her flush against him, Sam deepened the kiss, his tongue twisting with hers. Bobby furrowed his brow, and awkwardly glanced around as Sam and Bree continued to ignore them. Beside him, Dean made a face that said 'fucking, really?' and checked his watch, impatiently waiting for the pair to break apart. _

_ After what felt like an eternity, Bree finally broke away from the kiss. Sam chased her lips slightly before opening his eyes, seemingly in a daze. Bree bit her bottom lip and smiled shyly at him as she tried to catch her breath. With a mumbled goodbye and rosy cheeks, she turned tail and pushed through the screen door, closing the main door of the cabin behind her. Letting out a heavy breath, Sam stared after her in contented bewilderment. Wiping his palms on his jeans, Sam turned to face his brother and Bobby, who were both staring at him with matching 'what the fuck’ expressions. _

_ "You alright there, Romeo?" Bobby scoffed in bemusement. _

_ Sam inhaled deeply and set his hands on his hips, trying to regain his composure before answering, "Yeah. That was... WOW!" _

* * *

Sam was pulled from the memory by the sudden sound of Dean crooning slightly off-key to ACDC. Letting out a puff of air through his nose, Sam shifted in his seat and turned his attention out the window, trying to ignore the slight chubbing in his jeans. As pleasurable as the memory of that kiss had been, the expression on Bree 's face reflecting in the side mirror was sobering. Watching her retreat mentally like this made it difficult for Sam to join in his brother's revelry, even after a much-needed win. The only thing he could do now was hope that something changed soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER ALERT/TRIGGER WARNING!! This chapter contains a scene of attempted assault, though nothing comes of it. If this is something that you cannot handle reading, please do not read.

Roughly halfway through the almost 11-hour trek back to the bunker, Dean decided to stop for the night. That morning's drive from Lebanon to Indianapolis, combined with the excitement of shoving Lucifer back in the cage, was starting to take its toll. Conveniently, just around the corner from a surprisingly busy podunk bar was a motel with available rooms. 

For the sake of safety, Bree was begrudgingly forced to share a room with the boys. Ideally, she would have gotten a bit of privacy while not having to sleep on a roll-away cot, but, of course, Dean had decided otherwise. Sam, ever the gentleman, had offered to take the cot so that Bree could sleep comfortably in a bed, but she refused. With Sam being nearly a foot taller than her and the cot clearly being designed for someone more akin to the size of a child, she knew it would be unfair to take the bed from him. Until they made it back to the bunker, she would just have to make do.

They'd barely checked in and set down their bags, however, before Dean was already itching to go down the parking lot for drinks, "C'mon! Let's go kick back, drink a lot of beer, hustle a little pool, see the local wildlife."

"Dude, seriously?" Sam groaned irritably, "We were just in the car for almost 15 hours today! And we faced off against Lucifer. _Again_."

"Exactly! We kicked ass today! Let's go celebrate, all of us!"

Bree froze, crouched next to her overnight bag and the roll-away, and whipped her head to look at Dean in surprise, "All of us?"

"Damn straight. You've been sulking in your room long enough. Besides, weren't you just complaining about being trapped back at the bunker? So, now's your chance to get some fresh air before we head back."

"How exactly is a dive bar in the middle of bump-fuck-nowhere ‘fresh air'?" she asked with a frown.

"It’s called ‘culture.’ Now, let’s go. Chop, chop.”

“Dean, stop. It’s been a long day, and not all of us are in the mood to waste the night in some bar,” Sam scolded before turning to Bree, “Look, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Dean can go do his thing while we stay here and—”

“Oh, hell, no!” Dean interrupted loudly, “Your lame ass has not gone out drinking with me in months. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna leave the two of you alone in a motel room to fuck yourselves stupid.”

Bree had to do a double-take at Dean’s comment, taken aback by both the brazenness and seemingly randomness of it.

“One, we’re both fucking adults, so screw you. And two, we’ve been alone at the bunker numerous times! What the hell makes the difference between there and here!?” Sam retorted.

“That’s our home! This is a _motel room_. There’s a difference!” Dean gestured wildly as he spoke.

“Oh, that’s bullshit, and you know it. Besides, there’s more to life than getting laid, Dean. A man and a woman can, in fact, be in the same room _alone_ and not have sex.”

“Stop being a little bitch for once, alright? I know it’s been a while, but we haven’t had a win worth celebrating in ages. So, stop thinking with your downstairs brain, pull that stick out your ass, and let’s go!”

Sam threw his bag down on the bed angrily and raised his voice in exasperation, “I’m the one thinking with their ‘downstairs brain’!? Seriously!? All you ever do is think with your dick and confuse reality for porn!”

Bree shut her eyes tight and covered her ears, trying to block out the boys’ raucous bickering. Sam and Dean may not realize it, but whenever the two of them went at it, they tended to get loud. It was part of the reason why, whenever they had it out at Bobby’s, she would either hide out in the panic room or head to one of the workshops outside—loud noises send her mentally spiraling. A childhood filled with memories of parents screaming at each other and breaking things had left her traumatized and sensitive; also, prone to avoiding confrontation. It was something that Bobby had for years worked with her on. After his death, any progress Bree had made stagnated and, admittedly, gone back a step.

As the boys volleyed back and forth, Bree could feel her body tense with the familiar, tell-tale vibration of her muscles. With the way her mental state had been as of late, she immediately recognized where this was heading. However, she refused to let anyone see that vulnerable side of her, especially not the Winchesters.

“If I agree to go, will you both just shut the fuck up!?”

Both Sam and Dean jumped slightly and turned to look at Bree, startled by her outburst. Clearing his throat and nodding in satisfaction, Dean didn’t miss a beat before agreeing, “Well, alright then. That settles it, let’s go get drunk.”

“What? Wait, hold on a sec,” Sam interjected, “Bree, are you sure? It’s fine if you don’t want to—”

“Of course, she’s sure! Now c’mon! I’m hungry and the beer’s getting warm!”

“It’s December. I highly doubt that,” Sam grumbled as he rolled his eyes, shrugging back on his jacket and trailing behind his brother out the door. With an exhausted sigh, Bree followed suit and snatched her hobo bag from the table.

Truthfully, the three hunters could have walked to the bar at the far end of the parking lot, but it was already dark outside, and the temperature was steadily dropping. Once Baby was parked and the trio was inside, they were surprised to see that the place was now almost packed. A group of bikers passing through apparently shared Dean’s sentiment and had also stopped inside for a pick-me-up. It took them a moment, but eventually, Bree and the Winchesters were able to nab a booth by one of the front windows.

Warm lighting, classic rock, the faint smells of whiskey and cigarettes, boisterous voices, the cracking of billiards—this was definitely Dean’s bar of choice. After a moment, the lone waitress came over, took their food orders, and brought a round of beers, per Dean’s request. Dean was grinning from ear to ear, reveling in the atmosphere as he prattled on about how great the bar was and how nice it was to get a win for once. Beside him, Sam shook his head and humored conversation but silently mouthed an “I’m sorry” to Bree, who simply shrugged.

“Here you go! Cheeseburger sliders with extra onions and an order of nachos,” the waitress repeated the order as she set Dean’s food before him, followed by Sam’s and Bree’s, “Cauliflower bites and artichoke dip…. and quesadillas. Can I get you folks anything else?”

“No, we’re good, thanks,” Sam dismissed with a smile.

The waitress gave a quick nod and scurried back to the kitchen. True to form, Dean excitedly dove into his food like a man half-starved, earning a look of shame from Sam. Ignoring her beer, Bree quietly munched on her quesadilla, watching the older hunter flaunt his terrible table manners. She honestly wondered how Sam could stand to be seen publicly with the human garbage disposal but, considering that the Winchesters usually were stuck living on gas station snacks while out on hunts, couldn’t exactly fault him.

After all the food was finished, Dean grabbed another round of beers and offered a toast: “To jamming Lucifer back in the cage and not going to prison!”

Bree and Sam clanged their bottles with Dean’s in solidarity before all three of them took a sip. As soon as the hoppy, amber liquid touched her tongue, Bree scrunched her face in disgust. She had never liked beer to begin with, so she really didn’t know why she had expected it to be anything other than a crude assault to the palate. Bree also didn’t know why she had ever expected Dean to know tastes in alcohol since the man hadn’t bothered to learn even the bare basics about her.

Dean finished taking a hearty chug before setting the bottle down firmly and unleashing a satisfied burp. Tilting his head, the hunter’s attention was quickly drawn to an on-going game at one of the pool tables. The hustler in him couldn’t resist, and, before long, Dean was sliding out the booth.

“Time for some fun.”

Sam finished a pull from his beer and looked at his brother in confusion, “Hmm?”

Downing the last bit of his beer, Dean ruffled his hair, shot Sam a wink, and sauntered over to the billiards corner, just past the front door. Once the younger Winchester saw where Dean was headed, he let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head. Bree turned around to see where the older hunter was going and let out a snort.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” she mused, watching as Dean successfully got in on a game and racked together the balls, “So much for celebrating together.”

Sam simply rolled his eyes in amusement before taking another pull from his drink, “I don’t know why he still insists on hustling pool… Charlie set us up with cards that draft out of the Men of Letters’ charge accounts, so we never run out of money.”

“Huh… must be nice,” Bree commented as she turned back around to face him.

“Definitely makes hunting and being out on the road easier,” Sam agreed, setting the bottle back down. Glancing at the table, Sam realized that she wasn’t drinking, instead absentmindedly scratching at the corner of the label. “You okay?”

“What?”

“You haven’t touched your beer. All two of them,” Sam nodded to the bottle between her fingertips.

Bree picked up the bottle and inspected it a moment, mildly uninterested. Setting it back down, she smacked her lips together and proceeded to stare at him. Feeling suddenly very awkward under her gaze, Sam shifted in his seat and glanced around briefly.

“What?”

“I don’t drink beer.”

Sam opened his mouth and gaped at her a moment. Looking between Bree and the two beer bottles in front of her, he suddenly struggled for a response. _Of course_ , she didn’t like beer! Since when, in all the years they’d known each other, had she ever willingly drunk it? It was the reason why Bobby always kept a stash of hard ciders hidden in the back of his fridge for her. Cheeks flushing, Sam suddenly felt incredibly stupid for not knowing that, even though they had never gone out drinking together before then. He wasn’t even the one who ordered the drinks!

“Right... Of-of course…”

Bree nodded along, watching Sam with a somewhat bemused expression as he floundered. Glancing side to side, she turned her gaze back to the hunter and watched him expectantly. However, wanting the uncomfortable moment to be over with, she decided to throw Sam a lifeline.

“Rum and Coke.”

“Yes! _That_! Rum and Coke! That’s-I’ll just...” Sam clumsily pushed himself out of the booth, stumbling slightly as he stood.

Biting her bottom lip, Bree didn’t know whether to laugh or be embarrassed for him. Taking a deep, awkward chug of his beer, Sam gestured to the bar and hurried off to the bar. Bree watched as he squeezed through the crowd, comedically tall compared to almost everyone around him, yet moving with a surprising amount of grace. His reaction had been so ridiculous that she couldn’t help but shake her head; if Bobby were alive, he probably would have roared with laughter at poor Sam’s expense.

Letting out a sigh, Bree rested her head in her hand as she waited alone. Glancing around, she further took in the crowd, silently watching the interactions between bikers and bar patrons. People chatting, people laughing, people drinking; it all made her suddenly very aware of herself. Leaning back on the bench, Bree anxiously tugged at the sleeves of her sweater to cover her hands, feeling increasingly overwhelmed by the sensation that everyone was judging her. 

It honestly was one of many reasons why she tended to avoid overly crowded places. Plus, after years of too-close encounters with men twice her age and size, the bar scene had long since lost its novelty. What few good memories Bree had were tarnished by alcoholics, overly emotional displays of public embarrassment, and her continuously having been left to fend for herself in crowded rooms. The whole experience was overwhelming.

But she wasn’t alone; Sam and Dean were both here with her. Peeking over her shoulder, Bree watched as Dean scratched on the table, losing a game but entrapping the bikers in his scheme. At the counter, Sam was still waiting for the bartender, who was busy thanks to the sizable crowd. A slender, pretty, well-groomed brunette with tight jeans and a warm smile was chatting him up, practically glowing as she got Sam to laugh at something she said.

Bree could feel a familiar sinking feeling settle in the pit of her stomach as she watched them. The woman was skinnier and taller than her, looking put-together despite dressing for a casual night drinking. Bree wished she could make Sam laugh like that, smile like that. Instead, she just made him anxious and socially inept. Why would he ever look at her like that? After all, she was a walking disaster—a depressed nobody with too many issues for anyone to handle.

Reluctantly tearing her eyes away, Bree slumped in her seat. She wished things were different. She wished that there would be something between her and Sam, that she was enough to keep his attention. She wished that he would stand up to Dean more and that she could trust him to fight in her corner when she needed it. Hell, she wished that Dean was even remotely nice to her; he treated the King of Hell and Rowena better than he’d ever treated her. 

Having to constantly fight the older Winchester’s prejudices and suspicions was draining and disheartening. It was to the point now where Bree questioned her staying at the bunker. Why bother when someone who claimed to save people would just as quickly throw you to the wolves, given the opportunity? It was just another reason why she didn’t trust people.

Loneliness and longing slowly crept over Bree the longer she stewed in her thoughts. However, before they could completely overwhelm her, Sam reappeared with her drink and two beers in hand. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there to stay.

“Hey, so Dean is pushing for me to help him in a game really quick. Teams. Is that okay?”

“Sammy! C’mon!” Dean hollered impatiently from across the room.

Bree simply nodded and gave Sam a half-hearted smile. What was she supposed to do, tell him ‘no’? Tell him ‘please spend time with me’? Yeah right.

“Okay, cool. I’ll be right back,” Sam gave her a quick pat on the shoulder and took off to join his brother.

Bree stared sadly at her drink, wishing she could be anywhere else but here. She should have known that the boys would ditch her the first chance they got. She could hear both of them laughing loudly as they chatted up the bikers they were playing. Even when Bobby was alive, they tended to exclude her from things. Hell, they basically replaced her in the old hunter’s heart, making it painfully obvious that she was nothing more to them than a mere afterthought. The Winchesters didn’t even have the common decency to tell her Bobby was dead; Garth was the one who told her.

Plucking the straw from her drink, Bree tossed it across the table and bitterly downed her drink in one go. The sugary sweetness of the soda balanced the smooth burn of the spiced rum as it went down. Without a word, she grabbed her bag from beside her and expertly maneuvered through the crowd.

Grabbing the knob to the bar's front door, Bree watched momentarily as the boys quickly won their game and re-racked. Letting out a sigh of disappointment, she stepped out into the cold, winter night; they’d barely been at the bar an hour, and the temperature had already dropped considerably. Watching her breath form a cloud before disappearing, Bree wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and began her solemn walk back to the motel.

She’d just barely rounded the corner of the bar when a noise down the alleyway caught her attention. Reaching into her bag to grip the handle of her knife, Bree cautiously crept forward to investigate. When she got to where she could finally see around the dirty, green dumpster that sat across from the back door of the bar, she jumped when a fox darted out and squeezed through the fence, scampering into the woods. Simultaneously relieved and disappointed, Bree shook her head with a sigh and made her way back to the alley’s entrance. Just as she was about to reach the sidewalk, one of the bikers from the bar walked out from the front of the building, blocking her path.

“Hey, darlin,’ where ya headed?”

Bree clenched her jaw and said nothing, knowing better than to humor unnecessary conversation based on her past experiences. Stepping to her left, she tried to go around the man, who simply took one large side-step and continued to block her way.

“C’mon, baby. Too shy to talk to me?” he drawled, slurring his speech slightly.

“I’m leaving, actually,” Bree replied curtly, still attempting to go around him.

“Great! Where we headed?”

“Nowhere with you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that! We can have lots of fun, just the two of us,” the man cooed, the metal chain attached to his pocket clinging as he stepped forward.

Bree automatically took a step back, trying to keep some distance between them, “That’s gonna be a hard no. Goodbye.”

“Now, now. Don’t get mouthy. How ‘bout we find some better use for that mouth of yours?” he suggested, taking another step forward and grabbing his crotch.

Alarms were blaring in her head. Bree could feel her stomach tighten as panic began to settle in. The biker was thick, muscular, drunk, and imposing, standing at roughly the same height as Dean. There was absolutely no way she would be able to take him physically.

“I said no. Leave me alone,” Bree stated firmly, though the quaver in her voice was not unnoticeable.

She could hear the bass from the music blaring even from outside the bar. Anyone hearing her shout would be slim to none, and she’d stupidly left her cell back at the motel room charging. There would be no calling or texting Sam or Dean for help; she was so screwed.

“Why would I wanna leave you alone? Pretty, little thing like you? Bet you’d be all tight and warm,” the biker licked his lips as he shamelessly eyed her up. He continued to rub his crotch through the fabric of his jeans, trying to get himself harder for what he was planning to do.

Growing increasingly nervous, Bree swallowed hard and once again gripped her knife in her bag. She was running out of options. The hole in the fence behind her was too small to squeeze through, and she didn’t know any spells off the top of her head that would help. With no other way out, she was going to have to make a break for it.

Lunging to the left-then-right, Bree tried to fake out the biker. Before she could make it past the corner of the building, the man grabbed her arm and yanked her backward, hard. Swinging with a back-hand, she slashed at her attacker’s face with the knife, instantly drawing blood.

Enraged and in pain, he punched Bree in the face in retaliation, causing her to cry out and slam into the rough, brick wall of the bar. Hunched over and holding her face, Bree was yanked up and pinned to the wall by the biker's solid mass. He was on her instantly, sloppily attempting to kiss her while he pawed at her breasts and struggled to restrain her flailing hands. Bree swiped with the knife again, only to have her arm caught mid-swing. With a squeezing twist, the biker successfully forced her to drop the knife, almost snapping her wrist in the process.

“Like I said,” he slurred, his breath reeking of stale beer and tobacco, “let’s have fun.”

“HELP! SOMEONE HEL—” Bree screamed, only to be cut off by his hand around her throat.

The biker attempted to slot his leg between hers, grinding his groin against her hip, but was stopped by her dress's now-taut fabric. Using her free hand, Bree clawed at the man’s face, successfully scratching his eye, and making him release her with a yelp. Hitching up her skirt slightly, she kneed her assailant hard, effectively winding him and causing him to drop to his knees in pain.

Seizing the opportunity, Bree dashed around him towards the parking lot, only to have the bloody biker grab her ankle and send her crashing to the ground. With a sharp tug, he dragged her back towards him while she clawed at the pavement, desperate to escape. Bree’s sweater snagged and pulled against the rough concrete, her butt and the backs of her thighs scrapping as her dress rode up.

“Let me go!” she begged breathlessly, tears streaming down her face as she desperately struggled to fight him off.

“Shut up, bitch,” he spat before punching her in the head again.

Red blurred Bree’s vision, and her ears began to ring, making her dizzy. Using his full body weight to keep her pinned and a hand in her hair to yank her head back, the biker struggled to undo his belt one-handed while she thrashed beneath him. Tears continued to stream down her face as she gasped for air in a panic, desperate to shove him off but failing. Her mind was reeling, blanking out as she grew increasingly winded. She could hear the jingle of metal as he finally unclasped his belt buckle and unzipped his fly, the metal scraping against her exposed skin. When he tried to position himself, pushing her legs apart as he roughly tore at the hem of her underwear, something inside Bree snapped.

Her eyes glowed the familiar amethyst, and she latched both hands onto his face, digging her nails into the skin of his cheek and forehead. Letting out an ungodly screech, Bree unleashed a massive explosion of magical energy that caused even the dumpster to vibrate. The blast was so fierce that it swallowed them both momentarily before smashing the biker against the side of the building. The flash dissipated gradually, leaving nothing but the continuous booming for the bar’s music and the yellow glow of the outside light next to the back door.

Bree lay motionless, panting and staring unblinkingly at the night sky overhead. Her body felt impossibly heavy, to the point of an almost euphoric listlessness. Her mind was completely blank, her emotions having shut down due to trauma and shock. Slowly, the world began to tilt as she stared at the dark above, watching as little puffs of her breath disappeared into the abyss. There were no stars out tonight to watch over her, no one there to wipe away her rapidly freezing tears. 

After what felt like an eternity, Bree slowly peeled herself off the ground, rolling to her side before crawling to the side of the building next door. Curling into a tiny ball, she clutched the ripped ends of her skirt around herself and began rocking slightly, mumbling incoherently. The bass from inside the bar continued to thump away loudly, slowly bringing her back mentally as she tuned in to the music and raucous bar patrons.

Several moments had passed before Bree painstakingly hauled herself up, leaning against the wall for support. Refusing to look at the charred corpse across the alley, she gathered up her knife and bag and staggered onward to the motel. Not but a minute or two later, the cook from the bar came out the back door to toss a bagful of trash, only to inadvertently stumble upon the biker’s remains.

Bree barely registered having unlocked the motel room door and slinking inside. She dropped her bag haphazardly next to the cot, causing its contents to spill out onto the floor. Shuffling into the bathroom, Bree slowly stripped off the remnants of her torn clothes. Turning the faucet to as hot as she could physically handle, she carefully stepped beneath the shower stream. The instant the scalding spray touched her skin, Bree crumpled into the fetal position on the bottom of the tub, turning her face away as her body was wracked with sobs. Everything felt like a blur as if she were incapable of fully processing what had just happened. Tonight wasn’t the first time someone had attempted to rape her; it was just the first time someone had almost succeeded.

Nobody had heard her screams. Nobody had come to her rescue. They promised to protect her, to help her, but where were the Winchesters now? Bree stared vacantly at the discolored porcelain, drifting through her thoughts. With great difficulty, she picked herself up off the bottom of the tub and began cleaning her wounds. Rinsing away the blood and dirt, the water stung the cuts and scrapes that littered her back and thighs. Bree wanted nothing more than to sleep and never wake back up; forget everything that had happened, as if it was all a bad dream. By the time she finally stepped out of the shower, the water had gone cold.

Stepping in front of the mirror, Bree finally got a good look at the damage. She almost didn’t recognize her reflection staring back at her—a cut eyebrow, darkening black eye and bruised cheek, split lip, bruising around her throat—it was overwhelming. Suddenly, Bree snapped, punching the bathroom mirror, and shattering it completely. Blood smeared the fractured glass as she split her knuckles open, punching it over and over again.

Finally stepping away from the bathroom, Bree defaulted into survival mode. After rinsing, dressing, and wrapping the fresh cuts on her knuckles and the scrapes on the backs of her legs, Bree surveyed the motel room. With robotic methodology, she quickly layered on her clothes—undergarments, lined leggings, tank top, jeans, Henley, wool socks, boots. Considering how harsh the Midwestern winters could get, she knew she would be thankful for the added warmth.

Strolling over to Dean’s army duffle, Bree pulled out a sawed-off, some salt rounds, a vial of dead man’s blood, and the stash of cash that the hunter kept at the bottom of the bag “just in case.” Dumping out her torn bag, the witch gathered the hex bags and daily magical tools she kept on-hand, strategically filling the pockets of her bomber jacket for easy access. In a matter of seconds, Bree had already expertly repacked her overnight bag for ultimate storage and ease-of-travel, cleaned and strapped her knife to her hip, and activated the emergency burner phone she kept on-hand.

Shrugging on an old flannel of Bobby’s, pinning her mane-like waves into a messy bun, and putting on her jacket and scarf, Bree gave the room one last look-over. Her old phone was being left behind as reassurance that the Winchesters wouldn’t be able to track her. There was no point leaving a note behind since, regardless of any explanation, Dean would most likely hunt her down over the corpse in the alley.

Sirens ringing out in the distance cued Bree that it was time for her to go. Throwing her bag over her shoulder, the runaway witch stepped out into the night just as emergency responders turned into the parking lot of the bar. She may not have had a destination yet, but Bree knew that she couldn’t stay there. 

When they first pulled up to the motel earlier that evening, she remembered them driving over a set of railroad tracks. It was a start; she would follow the tracks until a freighter came through, which she would hop aboard and ride until they hit a train yard or midway stop. Suddenly, Bree felt like she was 15 years old again, running away from home in the middle of the night and riding the rails to her escape. Drawing in a deep breath, she marched forward, full of uncertainty and self-preservation. Snow began to gently fall all around her, helping to cover any tracks she left behind and helping her do what she did best—disappear.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!! This chapter contains references to the attempted sexual assault of last chapter. While it is in much less detail than the previous chapter, please proceed with caution if that is a particularly difficult subject for you to read

Sam absentmindedly chewed on his thumbnail as he stared blankly at the screen before him. It had already been four days since Bree disappeared, and he was growing increasingly restless. They couldn’t track the GPS on her phone since she had purposefully left it behind, and when he and Dean went to Rowena for a tracking spell, they found out that she had warded herself. 

He didn’t know why he would expect anything less considering that Bree had spent the last almost six years on the run. Between evading the Grand Coven and the British Men of Letters, she had damn near perfected the art of disappearing. That fact only served to make him even more restless—they had promised to protect her and failed miserably.

* * *

_ “Eightball. Cross corner. Right pocket,” Dean declared before making the shot and winning the game for him and Sam. The brothers shared knowing smirks as the bikers groaned in defeat. “Whaddya say, guys? Another round?” _

_ “Yeah, yeah. Rack ‘em up,” one of the older bikers huffed. _

_ Sam and Dean gathered the balls and set the table for the next game. It had been a while since they played together; if Sam was being honest, he kind of missed the camaraderie. He had just taken position at the head of the table when red and blue flashing lights caught everyone’s attention. Outside, two police SUVs and an ambulance had pulled up, parked in the spaces between the bar and the shop next door. Every patron inside had stopped what they were doing to spectate while the chef marched out to meet the officers.  _

_ Straightening to his full height, Sam glanced over to the booth where he had left Bree, only for his blood to run cold when he saw she was gone. Quickly turning to his brother, Sam gave Dean a worried look. Dean furrowed his brow in confusion and leaned to the side to look around him, turning stone-faced when he also saw the empty booth.  _

_ Dropping their cues, the boys headed outside to investigate the commotion, Dean grabbing their winnings from the ledge as they passed. The sudden burst of freezing air was a shock to the system, causing both boys to inhale sharply. Spotting several officers lingering at the entrance to the alleyway between the buildings, Sam and Dean quickly made their way over, pulling out the fake FBI badges as they approached. After a lifetime of hunting, the boys now made it a point to always carry them on their persons, should the need arise. _

_ “Hey. Mind telling us what happened?” Sam asked the nearest officer as they flashed their badges, not bothering with introductions. _

_ The officer nodded in acknowledgment before speaking, “The cook went to take the trash out and found the body of some biker by the dumpster. Skin so badly burned, almost unrecognizable.” _

_ “Someone burned the body?” Dean clarified. _

_ “More like incinerated it if you ask me. That’s not all, though. His, uh… Well, his ‘you-know-what’ was completely turned to ash.” _

_ Both Sam and Dean paused at the officer’s words, each wearing a matching expression of shock, “Uh… Any-anything found on the body?” _

_ “Nope, nothin’. No lighter or matches, no accelerant.” _

_ “What about any bags? Small, made of cloth,” Dean pushed, earning a side-eye from his brother. _

_ The officer shook his head with a look of confusion, “Um, no, nothing like that. We’re waiting for the owner to get here so we can look at security footage,” he gestured behind him to the camera on the wall, just above the back door of the bar. “Had it installed a few years back after someone tried to steal the cash deposit for the bank. That’s why so many bikers come ‘round here—owner’s brother is a member, and they help keep things mostly civil.” _

_ “Bodyguard bikers. Who’d have thought?” Dean commented sarcastically. _

_ “Better than the alternative.” _

_ Sam and Dean nodded their goodbyes and went back inside the bar to grab their coats before making their way to the impala, “Scale of one-to-ten, how much you wanna bet Bree had something to do with this?” _

_ “Dean, we don’t know what happened. She wouldn’t have just done something like this unprovoked,” Sam argued, desperately hoping he was right. _

_ “Dammit, Sam, are you fucking serious right now?” Dean half-shouted, “We’ve got a flame-broiled biker whose junk disintegrated, and Bree, a witch, is now missing. Now, I don’t know about you, but every single hunter’s instinct I have is telling me that she has something to do with it!” _

_ “We can’t just jump to conclusions when we don’t know what happened! For all we know, this was self-defense!” _

_ “Are you— ‘self-defense’? That’s what you’re going with here? Pretty fucking sure that torching some dude in an alley is a bit more than self-defense, Sam.” _

_ “Look, I’m just saying that until we talk to her and find out what actually happened, we can’t assume anything,” Sam pleaded from the passenger side of Baby. _

_ “Yeah, we’ll find out all right. Get in the fucking car.” _

_ The drive back to the motel room was a short albeit tense one. Sam sincerely hoped that Bree wasn’t at fault for this, that something happened and had forced her hand. Unfortunately, the evidence to the contrary was already damning, especially in his brother’s eyes. Walking into an empty motel room only worsened the situation. _

_ “Bree?” Sam called out, rushing through the room. Her overnight bag was missing, and her shoulder bag lay empty on one of the beds beside her cell phone. _

_ “Oh, would you look at that! She’s gone and hauled ass out of here,” Dean snarked bitterly, “Surprise, surprise.” _

_ “Dude—” _

_ “No, Sam! I fucking  _ _ told _ _ you that she couldn’t be trusted, but you were too busy thinking with your cock to listen. You let her play you with that sad, lonely Christmas shit. Well, look what happened!” Dean bellowed, swinging his arms wide to gesture around him, “A dead body and a missing witch. This-this is all on you,” Dean pointed angrily. _

_ “And what? Bobby vouching for her for years meant nothing!?” _

_ “Bobby’s dead! She played him like a fucking fiddle, too! OPEN YOUR EYES, SAM!” _

_ Sam clenched his jaw and shook his head at his brother, seething. Turning away from Dean, he walked to the bathroom and flicked on the light. Suddenly, that anger melted away as he stared at the sight before him. _

_ “Dean…” _

_ Angrily striding forward to where Sam was standing in the doorway, Dean stopped abruptly behind him when he saw the state of the bathroom. The massive mirror that stood from counter to ceiling was smashed completely, blood smeared at the various points of impact in the glass. Remnants of an attempt at first aid were strewn across the counter along with more shards of glass and blood. The shower was still wet as if someone had just used it, with water having spilled onto the discolored tile floor. _

_ Letting his eyes roam over the chaos, Sam noticed Bree’s discarded clothes in a heap on the floor. Picking them up, Sam shook out the dress and sweater, dropping bits of dirt and gravel onto the floor. One sleeve of her sweater was completely stretched out, almost twice the length of its twin. Around the collar, drops of blood mixed with dirt. The long, black dress that Bree had been wearing earlier that day now was shredded in places and filthy. A long tear that hadn’t been there before extended from hem to thigh, right down the bottom front. Even despite the dress's dark color, they could see varying patches of stiff fabric, where blood had dried. _

_ Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean, worry evident on his face. Dean looked from the dress to Sam, his jaw set and expression unreadable. Turning away, Dean headed back to the door of the motel room. _

_ “C’mon. We need to see that security footage.” _

_ Swallowing hard, Sam dropped the clothes on the floor and lingered briefly, staring at the destroyed mirror. Turning off the light, he hurried to catch up with Dean, who was already getting back into the car. When they arrived back at the bar, the owner had just pulled up. _

_ Flashing their fake badges, the Winchesters escorted the owner—a middle-aged man with the beginnings of a receding hairline—inside. The officer from earlier, who they found out was the deputy, walked with them to the back office. Once the owner pulled up the security footage from that day, the deputy and the Winchesters excused him to review the footage in private. It didn’t take the men long to find the timestamp they needed, but what played out on the screen wasn’t what they expected. _

_ “There she is,” Dean muttered under his breath when Bree appeared. _

_ Leaning forward, he rested his hands on the desk and watched intensely, Sam watching hunched over his shoulder. They could see her carefully check the alleyway and jump as the fox startled her. When she went to leave, they could see a biker stagger out of the bar, clearly drunk, before coming to a stop at the alley entrance when he noticed Bree. _

_ Instantly, an uneasiness settled in the pit of Sam’s stomach. Frowning, he watched as she unsuccessfully tried to go around the much bigger man. Dean narrowed his eyes at the screen. The back of his mind was nagging that he knew where this was going—a drunk guy cornering a girl alone—he’d intervened every time he saw it. But he couldn’t focus on that and instead forced himself to continue watching. _

_ For several minutes, the three men watched the scene play out in silence. Bree tried to make a run for it, using a feint maneuver that Sam and Dean had both used numerous times before. But sadly, she was neither as large nor as fast as the two hunters. A swipe of her knife, a punch to the face, the man slamming her into the wall; Sam could feel his stomach churning as he continued to watch, clenching his hands into fists. _

_ Why was no one coming to help her? They could see what looked to be people entering the bar, see the warm light coming from inside the building. She screamed for help, but nobody heard her. They were right there, just on the other side of the brick wall, and didn’t help her. _

_ Dean was holding his breath, silently praying that somebody,  _ _ anybody, _ _ would come to help her. His rage over the burnt corpse found in the alleyway had dissipated into fear and the overwhelming desire to rip the man in the video’s throat out. Dean was now mentally begging for Bree to blow away her attacker, fight him off, and escape. _

_ They watched as she kneed him in the groin and took off running, only for him to clumsily grab her dress, tearing it as he gripped her ankle and sent her colliding with the ground. Sam drew a ragged breath as tears pricked the corners of his eyes, watching helplessly as the biker climbed on top of Bree. Dean’s entire body tensed up as he slammed his eyes shut tight and grit his teeth; he couldn’t watch it.  _

_ “What the hell?” the duty gasped from behind them. _

_ A flash of blinding light whited out the screen, causing Dean to reopen his eyes in alarm. The light faded away, revealing the biker on the other side of the alley, now burnt to a crisp, and Bree lying motionless on the ground. For several painstakingly slow minutes, she just lay there, unmoving and unresponsive. Eventually, they watched as she slowly rolled over and crawled away to the opposite wall as the biker’s remains. _

_ Sam let out a heavy breath, relief washing over him. For a moment, he genuinely thought that the blast had killed her too. However, seeing Bree curled up into a ball, holding herself as she rocked back and forth, was devastating. Sam was instantly wracked with guilt. He shouldn’t have ditched her to hustle pool; he should have stayed and sat with her. It had been a rare opportunity to spend a little time with her, but instead, he ignored her, allowing this to happen. _

_ Dean wasn’t much better off, stewing in his own self-loathing. He hadn’t hesitated for a moment, immediately assuming Bree was at fault because of his suspicions against her. Sam had been right, as usual; she never would attack someone unless provoked. It was a fact that he should have known from the start but chose to ignore simply because of who she was—a witch—which ended up saving her from rape, or worse. _

_ Eventually, they watched as Bree staggered off-camera, and Dean paused the footage. Glancing over at his brother, Dean could see Sam’s emotions written all over his face. It only added to the guilt and self-hatred he was struggling to keep down. _

_ “Agents… I don’t know about you, but I have no idea what to make of that,” the deputy slowly stated, clearly shaken by what they just witnessed. _

_ Both Sam and Dean shook themselves free of their stupors and composed themselves before turning to the older man. Admittedly, they had both forgotten he was there, having been so engrossed in the security tape. _

_ “Deputy, we’ve seen something like this happen before,” Dean began, already expertly spinning the story he would feed to the small-town policeman. “Looks like your so-called victim attempted to sexually assault a young woman, who managed to get the better of him by pure happenstance.” _

_ “Happenstance?” the deputy repeated in confusion. _

_ “That bright light we saw was a recalled prototype of a new night safety tool being marketed towards women. If you manage to hit it just right, the flashlight and personal taser cause an electrical short, making the device explode,” Dean explained matter-of-factly, “It’s not the first time we’ve dealt with this.” _

_ “Given what we just witnessed, it’s obvious that the death of the woman’s assailant was purely an accident stemming from self-defense. So, we can all agree that there will be no need to pursue this further, correct?” Sam added coolly. _

_ “Uh, Yes, I suppose?” _

_ “Good,” Dean continued, “Now, we would like to talk to the woman in the footage to make sure she’s alright and didn’t succumb to any of her injuries. So, we’re going to need you to put out an APB and be on the lookout for her.” _

_ “Y-yes, whatever you say, agents.” _

_ Sam reached into his back pocket and fished out a business card from his wallet, handing it to the deputy, “Should your supervisors have any questions, or if you get an update on her whereabouts, feel free to give us a call.” _

_ The Winchesters each gave the deputy a tight nod farewell and strode from the room. Neither of them spoke, instead letting the silent tension hang over them like a cloud all the way back to the impala. Once the doors were slammed shut, both men sat in silence, staring at the bar as they processed everything. Dean looked over at Sam, who sat stone-faced with red-rimmed eyes, although he didn’t shed any tears. He could see the heartbreak written all over his brother’s face. _

_ “Sam—” _

_ “Don’t,” he interrupted coldly, refusing to look at him, “She didn’t even want to come out tonight in the first place. Never should have pressured her into going to this stupid bar.” _

_ Sam’s voice was steely and steady. Dean could tell he was boiling beneath the surface and honestly couldn’t blame him. What happened tonight, everything that they watched Bree go through, that was on him. Sam had told him to leave her alone, to let him and Bree relax back at the motel room, but he wouldn’t have it. The only reason she had finally agreed to go was so he and Sam would shut up and stop arguing. Look where that got them. _

_ “You were so quick to point fingers at her,” Sam continued, seething and struggling to contain his emotions, “What he did to her… what he tried to do…” _

_ Dean cast his eyes downwards and nodded. Swallowing hard, he turned on the ignition and pulled away from the bar. There was nothing he could say that would even remotely make this better. So instead, he drove them back to the motel room, where they sent word to Donna and Jody to keep an eye out and barely managed to get any sleep. _

* * *

The iron door of the bunker creaking pulled Sam from his thoughts. Sam rubbed his eyes and watched as Dean descended the stairs, letting out a heavy breath through his nose.

“Yo,” he called out, groceries in-hand, “Any word?”

“Nothing new. Kelly’s phone is off, and Bree is still in the wind.”

Dean plopped the bag on the table before slumping down in the chair across from his brother, “Of course not. First, Miss Witch hits the road, and then the devil’s baby mama gives Cas the slip. Fucking featherhead.”

The morning after Bree had taken off, the Winchesters received a call from Cas saying that Kelly Kline had given him the slip at a diner just a couple of hours out from the bunker. Unfortunately, having already been on-edge after witnessing Bree's ordeal, Dean took out his anger and frustration on the angel. As a result, Cas had been keeping communications strictly between him and Sam while he attempted to track Kelly down, at least for the time being.

Now, there was a multi-state BOLO out for both women, not that it did them much good. The situation was entirely out of the Winchesters’ hands, leaving little else to do but wait and continue hunting. Any dopamine left over from their success with sealing Lucifer back in the cage had long since fizzled out.

“Any word from Jody or Donna?”

Sam shook his head sadly, “Nothing. They’re both keeping their eyes out, though.”

Dean hummed in acknowledgment, thinking for a moment, “Did Jody sound a little, I dunno…  _ off _ when we told her about Bree running?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” Sam shrugged half-heartedly.

Dean watched his brother thoughtfully, studying his appearance. Ever since they saw the security camera footage days ago, Sam had been in a depressive funk. Several times now, when he thinks he’s alone, Dean has caught him staring forlornly at the decorative, glass trees that Bree had placed on the library tables. Or, when he’s grabbing a book from the shelves, Sam would linger a bit, wistfully tracing his eyes over the fairy lights that she had carefully woven into the evergreen garlands.

The first night back at the bunker had been the worst. Sam ended up downing an entire fifth of whiskey as he sat alone in the library, all the lights off except for the tree that Bree had put so much effort into decorating. He was hurting, and Dean couldn’t blame him. Several times now, the older Winchester had also stopped to admire the bulbs and decorations on the tree she magically grew, the tree that she wasn’t getting to enjoy. He felt guilty for what happened to Bree and for how quick to blame he had been. So much for a ‘Merry Christmas.’

“We’ll find her, Sammy,” Dean reassured, still watching him.

“Yeah… I hope so…”


	7. Chapter 7

Freight cars rattle rhythmically as the train trudged along the tracks, the familiar click-clacking of gears and metal wheels providing a surprising comfort in the winter's night. A frigid wind billowed around the cars while the engine plowed along with little resistance. Despite the volume, the rocking back-and-forth created a lulling sensation, soothing to the nerves and allowing for a steady night's rest.

Bree cracked open her eyes, watching quietly as the woods flew past through a small gap in the cargo door. She had almost forgotten how soothing the motions of a train could be. While overseas, she would occasionally hop aboard the Eurorail when in a pinch to put distance between herself and the extremist witches who were trying to restore and revitalize the Grand Coven. 

It always amazed Bree that in a matter of 11 or so hours, she could go from Lyon to Naples or Naples to Munich, disappearing completely before the witches could catch up. For the most part, however, she had been content to travel Europe and the Mediterranean by boat, automobile, or on foot. It was surprisingly easy to go off-grid when you avoided public transportation. Obviously, there were numerous factors behind her modes of transportation—weather, season, political climate, etc.

That said, high-powered trains and cushioned passenger cars didn't have quite the same appeal to Bree as freighthopping across the continental US. When she first ran away from home at 17 years old, Bree wasted no time catching a ride on a train passing through the town she lived in. Unfortunately, despite the train moving slowly through the area, she still managed to crack a kneecap and dislocate a hip. The next time she attempted the maneuver, she fractured an elbow and twisted her ankle.

Eventually, Bree became well-practiced enough that she could freight-hop without injury. However, those initial injuries hadn't quite healed properly, leaving her with a slight limp that didn't go away until roughly eight years later. It wasn't until Castiel healed her after she had reunited with the Winchesters—showing up bloodied and bruised at their motel room—that all previous injuries were healed.

Everyone had always just assumed that the limp was from some sort of hunting injury. Bobby Singer was the only person who knew the truth about her years spent as a homeless, runaway youth. Then again, nobody had ever actually bothered to ask.

Bree had always felt safest on the rails—untraceable, a vagabond weaving in and out of society and the general populace at-will. Sure, traveling the country with no prospects and minimal GPS _at best_ throughout most American Midwest had its setbacks—sex trafficking, harsh winters, illness, food, shelter, drugs. For the most part, Bree had managed to avoid the darker aspect of being a runaway, save for experimentation of various recreational substances. However, once the money she stole from her alcoholic mother had run out, Bree had to adapt.

Being somewhat short and easily unassuming proved to be rather beneficial in the art of sticky fingers. She quickly learned how to efficiently and subtly sneak food and essentials into her bag and pockets, which ended up becoming useful when hunting later in life. Her newfound skills also proved useful when she needed to hideout somewhere warm and covered to sleep for the night.

None of this compared to the very real threats that the supernatural presented to anyone even remotely appearing homeless, especially in cities. Sadly, Bree learned this lesson firsthand two years after running away from home. While making a brief stop in Detroit, still aimless in her travels, she found herself snatched up by a nest of vampires targeting homeless teens. Whoever they didn't turn with the intent of expanding their so-called "family", the vampires would then feed on, only saving one or two to be blood slaves.

It was a smart plan, in hindsight. The vampires specifically targeted runaways and the homeless, people they knew nobody would miss if they were turned or killed, thus keeping off the radar of hunters. Luckily for Bree, she was reunited with Bobby Singer after almost a decade apart, despite almost becoming dinner.

* * *

_Bree came to with a massive migraine. She was startled to find herself tied to a pillar in the middle of an old, dirty warehouse, with a rag tied around her mouth to silence her. Several other teenagers were also tied to beams around the room; sometimes multiple tied together. The warehouse was dark and musty, with the windows high above covered in a distinctive layer of filth and the smells causing a mild burning sensation within her nose._

_Bree fidgeted in her bindings, trying and failing to wiggle herself free. Eventually, tired from the effort and wrists now somewhat raw from rubbing, she was forced to resign to the fact that she was stuck here. For hours she sat there, no food or water, with the only sounds being the occasional sniff or whimper from one of the other teenagers._

_After what felt like an eternity, the giant, rusted bay doors at the end of the warehouse opened, and three strangers—two men and a woman—strolled in. Going around to each prisoner tied to a beam, the woman inspected them all, almost like appraising cattle. Per her instruction, the two men with her would alternate dragging whomever she selected out of the room, one to the right of the hall beyond the bay doors, the other to the right. The cries of the teens echoed across the warehouse as they were taken to God knows where. When the trio finally reached her, the woman donned a predatorial smirk and guided her chin side-to-side._

_"Hmmm… She's cute but tiny. Could be a good feeder or fang," she mused aloud, "Let's leave her for now. I want to think about it a bit before deciding."_

_Finishing their inspections, the trio left through the bay doors, closing them behind them and plummeting Bree in darkness once more. Out of the roughly 20 teenagers that had been tied up before, only five now remained. Bree could feel a sinking dread in the pit of her stomach; what were they going to do with her? And what did the woman mean by "fang"?_

_Not even an hour later, shouts and banging could be heard from behind the doors. Suddenly, the doors flew open with a loud screech, and two figures entered the warehouse, though it was hard to see due to the bright light behind them. As they drew nearer, Bree could hear male voices._

_"Damn, they were keepin' all these kids. Alright, let get them outta here," the taller of the two spoke._

_The shorter one nodded and ran over to where Bree was tied up, "Alright, sweetheart, we're gonna get ya somewhere safe."_

_Bree 's eyes went wide at the familiar, gruff voice, and she began wiggling excitedly, her eyes adjusting so she could see her rescuers more clearly. Bobby undid the ropes and helped her stand, seemingly not recognizing her, and ran to help one of the others still tied. Bree stood by, watching in disbelief as she rubbed her wrists. It had been nine or ten years since she last saw him, and, aside from some extra grey in his beard, he looked like he hadn't aged a day._

_"Uncle Bobby?" she called out timidly._

_Both men whipped around in surprise, "Uncle? Thought you were an only child, Bob-o. You been holdin' out on me?"_

_"I am an only child, and so was Karen," he answered in confusion, "Do I know you?"_

_"Bobby, it's me, Bree," she implored, voice full of emotion, "Chris Wildes' daughter."_

_Bobby stared at her, mouth agape, as realization washed over him, "Bridget?"_

* * *

Bree propped herself up against the cold, metal wall of the empty boxcar and continued to thoughtfully watch as the world passed by. Her injuries from the alley incident were slow to mend, with cuts and bruises still lingering now a week later. It certainly didn't help that another cold front had swept through the Midwest, bringing all the beauty of a white winter plus the frostbite. 

When she was able to, Bree had stopped at a Big Gerson's in Kearney, Nebraska to clean up a bit and redress her more sensitive injuries. It was the perfect place to avoid the Winchesters and most other hunters, if she was being honest. Ever since the leviathans and Dick Roman tried to poison the populace with food additives back in 2011 and 2012, they had made it a point to never go back. Despite the guaranteed security the restaurants provided, Bree made it a point never to hover too long—people tended to ogle at her and mutter under their breaths when they saw the bruises.

She didn't want their fake sympathy or their judgment. Bree wanted something that she knew she couldn't have, and all the food, booze, and mind-altering plants weren't going to fill that void. So, instead, she had resigned herself to a life of restless loneliness, roaming the world with no real sense of direction.

It was something she and Bobby had often argued about, ever since that day in the warehouse. When he found out she had dropped out of high school, the old hunter had pushed and pleaded with her to go back.

 _"Get your education,"_ he would say, " _You're too smart not to be in school. You think your daddy wanted this life for you? He'd want you to go to school, go to college."_

A lot of good that did her, the wants and desires of the man who promised her happiness only to abandon her at nine years old—the hunter who never came home. Bree let out a weary sigh at the memories of bickering with her godfather, who seemingly wanted too much for her future. Eventually, she had gone and gotten her GED, just to appease him, and even took a few online college courses. But she lacked too much confidence in her own intelligence and abilities and dropped out of that too.

The freighter began to slow to a stop, coming to a railway junction where it would have to wait for an oncoming train to pass. Bree contemplated for a moment; she didn't have a destination in mind when she ran from the Winchesters and the alleyway. After months of slowly deteriorating mental health, the incident with the biker had been her breaking point. So, just like every other time life got to be too much for her, Bree ran. It wasn't the first time, and certainly wouldn't be the last.

As cathartic as traveling aimlessly with no real responsibilities or restrictions had been, Bree was admittedly beginning to miss the comforts of a warm bed and hot shower. Staying with the Winchesters for as long as she did certainly had its perks, despite it feeling like she had been under house arrest. Sure, it lacked windows and had long, dark, winding hallways that sometimes seemed to close in, but each of the rooms had its own heater. Not to mention, the bunker had an amazing bathroom! That had been perhaps her favorite room in the bunker, between the fantastic water pressure, perfect water temperature, and amazing soaking tub that she had used as often as possible. Too bad Sam and Dean's secret hideout had become her prison.

Reaching into her bag, Bree pulled out a well-loved map of North America, with tiny holes from where she had folded and re-folded it many times. Next, from the pocket of her jacket, she pulled out and carefully untangled a silver chain with a pendulum spiral at the end, followed by a small bag of various, rough-cut stones. Being a self-taught witch certainly had its perks; for example, when all else failed, and GPS couldn't track her location, a pendulum and map worked just as well.

Sure, there were actual spells she could that would pinpoint her exact location down to the street, but that required time and materials she didn't have. Besides, as enticing as the warmth from the resulting fire was, it would have been a waste of a perfectly good map that she would most likely need again. Okay, so maybe her methods were a bit more backwoods than, say, Rowena's practices. Didn't mean that it was any less useful.

Fixing a small piece of moldavite into place, Bree smoothed out the map, securing the edges with random bits so it didn't fly out the door. Uttering a quick incantation, she steadily hovered the pendulum above the center of the map and waited, eyes closed. Within seconds, the pendulum slowly moved in a tiny circle, swinging wider and faster with each pass. Reaching peak speed, the pendulum made precisely 13 rotations before suddenly dropping, the moldavite's pointed tip pointing to South Dakota.

Folding up the map, Bree pulled out a binder clipped stack of maps and swapped it for one of South Dakota. Repeating the spell, the pendulum narrowed her location to just outside Worthing. Bree chewed the inside of her cheek as she stared at the map, pondering her next move.

Sioux Falls was only about 17 miles north of where she was. How long had it been since she last been there? The more she thought about it, the more she felt a longing for the place that, once upon a time, she considered home. Sure, the house may have been burnt to a crisp, but the simple comfort of being somewhere safe and familiar was too tempting to ignore.

Cleaning up her spell work and tucking the maps and stones back into place, Bree adjusted her scarf and slung her bag over her shoulder. Standing at the door to the empty boxcar, she patiently waited for the oncoming train to pass, turning her face away from the biting wind that blew with it. Once clear, she quickly hopped into the snow just as the freighter she'd been riding began to trudge alone again.

With some difficulty, Bree dragged herself to the neighboring tracks that were cleared of snow. Looking up, it took her a moment to locate the north star, but once she had it in her sight, she began her hike to Sioux Falls. It was a surprisingly clear night, with the recent flurries having moved east. As the noises of the train faded into the distance, a still silence fell over the woods, the only sounds being the soft crunch of snow beneath Bree 's feet.

* * *

Jody sat at her dining room table, casually sipping an evening cup of coffee after a long-overdue day off. Between hunting, being sheriff, stressing out over Claire, and now searching for Bree, she had barely had a moment to breathe. Honestly, if it weren't for Donna and Alex, Jody probably wouldn't remember to even eat or sleep.

Ever since Sam had called asking for her and Donna to keep a lookout for Bree, Jody had been on edge. It had, unfortunately, been years since she had last seen her, and Jody couldn't help but worry. Hell, she didn't even know that Bree had been back in the states or she had been staying with the boys in the first place. Considering that Sam and Dean didn't even know about Jody's history with Bree or her family, it really shouldn't have been that surprising. Based on what Bobby Singer had told the sheriff years ago, it was best that Bree’s past be kept quiet.

Jody stood from the table and walked down the hall to her bedroom. In the back of her closet, Jody kept several boxes full of memories—her and Shawn's wedding album, Owen's birth certificate and baby album, pictures and videos of her, Shawn, and Owen, Owen's favorite toy truck. All the memories were still painful, even after all the years that had passed. Sometimes, when she was alone and was feeling a certain way, she'd have a glass of wine and tuck away to reminisce on the family that was taken from her.

Reaching past the larger boxes, Jody pulled out a small, modest, photo box from the closet's back corner. The top was covered with more dust than she would care to admit, but the contents were just as precious as anything else she kept hidden away. Walking back to the dining room, Jody resumed her spot at the table and carefully peeled off the lid.

Picking up a stack of photos right off the top, Jody shuffled through the memories, smiling fondly at each one. There was a picture of her as a teenager, crouched next to a bitty little girl with a messy mane of hair, cheeks rosy, and eyes shining. Another of the same little girl with an older man, whose face was covered with scruff and motor oil. There was one more of Jody on the cusp of graduating high school, perched on the back of an old motorcycle with the man, now older.

Towards the end of the stack, there were a few photos that Bobby had asked Jody to hold onto, not long after his house was blown up. There was a picture with the same little girl, now a bit older, hugging the ornery hunter around the waist as they both smiled for the camera. The next, her sitting on a workbench as she watched the man from earlier photos, now with grey in his beard, as he took apart a riffle. There were pictures of her learning to shoot, as well as some of her snuggling a gruff-looking junkyard dog. A picture of her with a cabbage leaf on her head in Bobby's kitchen with Bobby laughing beside her rounded out the stack.

Jody sniffed and shook her head, smiling affectionately at the photos. There weren't many in the stack, just enough to be worth looking through. In the box, there remained an old utility knife, rusted and covered in oil, and a pair of tickets to some 90’s rock concert. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Bree was still teetering around after her father and Bobby. Or that Jody was babysitting her as a teenager, looking to earn some money. These were little mementos of the few happy moments from an otherwise painful childhood for Bree.

Jody let out a sigh when the sudden realization struck her. Placing the lid back on the photo box, she rushed to the front door and grabbed her jacket and keys on the way out. It was already almost black as pitch outside, the only light coming from lamps along the roadside. She was going to have to be careful making her way to the outskirts of Sioux Falls, especially since plows didn't always head out there anymore. Jumping in her truck, she turned on the ignition and quickly pulled out of the driveway, calling Alex as she did.

"Hey, Jody, what's up?"

"Alex, I think I know where Bree is. I won't be home when you get off, but do me a favor and check if anyone has come to the hospital for hypothermia," she urged over speakerphone.

"Yeah, of course. You think she got caught in the snow?" Alex's voice rang out, the sound of computer clicks echoing in the background.

"Oh, if I know anything about Bree, she definitely did. Just need to figure out if she's at there or if she's at Singer's."

"Ummm," Alex's voice trailed off momentarily before rejoining the call, "nothing here for anyone coming in with hypothermia. I also checked for frostbite and anything else that would have been caused by the weather."

Jody let out a heavy sigh, body tensing as she tried to warm up in the cold truck, "Alright. When you get home, pull out the spare blankets we've got in the closet. Be careful driving—they haven't salted our street yet."

"Will do. Stay safe, Jody."

With a click, the call ended, and Jody turned her complete focus to the road ahead. There was seldom another car during her trek to Bobby's old place. The house may be long gone, but the workshops and memories long remained. If there were ever somewhere that Bree would go, it would be there.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone! Between work and the holidays, I barely had time to even think. I have the chapter after this mostly ready to go, just need to type it up. After that, there's only 3 chapters left!!
> 
> Thanks for being so patient!!
> 
> XO  
> -Peri

Bree made her way up the dimly lit street, shoulders hunched forward for warmth. The houses were spaced apart a decent distance with large stretches of darkness between patches of light from porch lamps or lit electrical poles. Under normal circumstances, the 17-mile trek to Sioux Falls wouldn’t have been too bad—roughly an eight-hour hike, though Bree had done worse. Between the frigid cold and almost a foot and a half of snow, however, she found herself struggling slightly and taking longer than anticipated.

The familiar, ramshackle fence stood ahead, leaning slightly with dead vines, ice, and snow entwined in the wood and metal. The overhead light that illuminated the sign and entrance to Bobby’s salvage yard remained surprisingly intact. Hell, it was a miracle the old thing even worked.

As she approached the gate, Bree could see three, dark shapes perched atop the arch. Cautious, she gripped the knife and hex bag in her coat pockets, one in each hand. Even though she was warded, there was always the potential that other witches could be waiting with a trap. Nonetheless, it wasn’t until one of the dark shapes cawed at her that Bree even realized what they were, causing her to take pause.

_One for sorrow_

_Two for mirth_

_Three for a funeral_

_Four for a birth_

Bree swallowed hard and stared at the crows, giving them a knowing look. Without breaking eye contact, she fished through one of the breast pockets of her jacket and produced a bit of granola. Breaking it into pieces, Bree tossed the food into the air, which the three corvids eagerly dove after before flying away, disappearing into the inky darkness.

Carefully squeezing through the gate that partially closed off the entrance to Singer Salvage, Bree quietly stepped inside the forgotten property. For years, Bobby had talked about getting the gate fixed since it wouldn’t latch properly and had been bent from years of wear and tear. Between building the panic room and the Winchesters showing up at random times, he had eventually given up on the idea. It certainly didn’t help that Bree had also shown up at Bobby’s house on a near-weekly basis.

Beyond the fence, everything was still and utterly silent. Along either side of the snow-covered driveway that wove through the property were stacks of old, inoperable cars. Rows of both vintage and post-1980s models sat untouched in the larger sections of the salvage yard. The brilliant white of the fresh-fallen snow was a stark contrast to the varying shades of rusted metal. Admittedly, it was somewhat unnerving to be alone there at night, especially knowing that Bobby was not there to keep the place warded.

Bree walked onward, following the winding drive to the center of the property. Back when her father had helped Bobby manage the place, there had been fewer cars strewn about, and everything had been much better organized. He had made it a point to keep the place relatively put together, despite it being an automotive junkyard. Between Bree darting around with Bobby’s old dog, Rumsfeld, and the boys running around, it had to be. While it had never quite reached the glory it once knew under the care of Karen Singer, Bobby’s salvage yard had been quite manageable under Bree’s father’s guidance. Of course, that had ended abruptly too.

Leaving a messy trail of footprints behind her, Bree marched forward with the ghosts of her early childhood memories flitting about between the abandoned cars. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was the first time anyone had even set foot on the property since her godfather’s death. It wouldn’t have been a surprise if it was—Sam and Dean had been so protective of the old hunter and taken his death hard, according to Garth.

Bree could feel a familiar pang of bitterness and jealousy at the thought. Bobby had been _her_ godfather, _her_ father’s best friend; she had him first. For years, _she_ had been Bobby’s favorite girl, before Sam and Dean stole her place in the old hunter’s heart. What made the Winchesters so special that they got all the attention and sympathy while she was just an afterthought?

Hot, angry tears began to stream down Bree’s face. Even after all these years, she was still angry and bitter over Bobby’s death and the aftermath. It would most likely always be a sore subject for her, knowing that she would never be able to get closure while the rest of the world seemingly catered to Sam and Dean Winchester.

Bree stopped abruptly when she came upon the dilapidated remains of what used to be the house. She hadn’t seen it following the hit by the leviathans. Instead, she and Bobby had rushed to get Sam and Dean as far away from the big-mouthed nightmares as possible. Seeing the place she had once considered home in its long-condemned state was heartbreaking.

It was hard to believe that this was where Bree had taken her first steps and learned to ride a bike. Or that she had spent so many days with her dad and Bobby here, running wild amongst the cars while they worked. That was before life had come crashing down around her—before her father’s disappearance and before a lifetime of broken promises and abuse. Even now, in its charred and snow-covered state, Bobby’s house served as a somber reminder of the life Bree once had and the life she could have lived.

“Hello, little bird.”

Bree sharply whirled around at the sudden voice echoing, promptly grabbing the knife in her pocket. Further down the drive, towards another part of the salvage yard just past the old garage and workshop, stood a woman with dark curls and a thick, fur-lined, woolen coat. It took Bree a moment to recognize the trespasser, but there was no mistaking it—Olivia Blackwell, leader of the uprising band of witches and the woman who had put a price on her head.

“I just knew you’d come back to the nest, eventually,” Olivia cooed as she stepped forward, “Although, I must say I’m surprised that it took so much longer than anticipated.”

Bree straightened to her full height and took a firm stance as she faced the older witch, “Well, I’m here now. Guess I should be honored that you personally came to kill me.”

“Yes, well, you’ve been a pain in my ass for far, far too long, little girl. If you want something done right…”

“What’s the matter? Not enough of your little witch-bitches left to keep hunting me?” Bree snarked.

Olivia stopped and glared at her, “Unfortunately, between you and the British Men of Letters picking off our members like flies, I’ve been forced to take a more hands-on approach.”

“They abandoned you,” Bree concluded with a scoff, “All that big talk about greatness and restoring the Grand Coven to its former glory, about ushering in the next great age of witchcraft… and everyone dipped, leaving you holding the matches.”

“Only because a pissant, little, shit stain like yourself wouldn’t behave and mind her own business. Thanks to you, what few of my sisters who weren’t captured or killed were forced to scatter,” Olivia spat angrily, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, though, they’ll get theirs. But first, I think it’s time to finally put you in your place.”

Bree furrowed her brow and took a step back as the older witch glowered at her. She knew of Olivia’s reputation as a witch with a propensity towards darker magics. Even Rowena hadn’t dared to cross her path.

“Tell me, Ms. Wildes, are you familiar with the story of what happens to naughty children at Christmas? I promise you, it’s far worse than a lump of coal.”

Out of the shadows behind Olivia stepped a towering, dark, horned figure. It had the lower body of a goat, the upper body of a man, the mane of a lion, face and tusks of a wild boar, and horns of a ram. Thick, black fur covered the creature from head to hoof, with hooded eyes glowing crimson in the night. In one hand, it held a large bundle of thick, heavy branches, while the other held a sickle attached to a chain that wrapped around its waist. Steam rose from the beast’s nose and mouth with each breath, hot drool dripping from its jowls as it growled lowly.

The monster let out an ungodly roar and rushed forward. Letting out a startled shriek, Bree dropped her bag in the snow and took off, attempting to run in the snow but finding herself struggling considerably. Realizing that she would not be able to evade the beast this way, she instead ducked between stacks of cars where little snow had fallen, narrowly missing a swipe from the beast’s claws. Crawling, bobbing, and weaving, Bree tried to put as much distance between herself and the _thing_ hunting her. Sliding beneath an old Dodge pick-up, she could hear the monster’s roars echo across the salvage yard, rattling the heaps of metal while Olivia laughed hysterically.

“Run all you want, little girl! There’s no escaping the Krampus once he catches your scent. Careful not to cut yourself, or he’ll be on you faster than you can blink,” she cackled loudly, “And then he’ll beat you with his branches before devouring you and dragging your soul to the pits of hell! Too bad nobody will be coming to save you, once again! You shouldn’t have interfered with things you don’t understand. Magic isn’t for pathetic, damaged little girls playing pretend!”

“Yeah, well, I know the mother of the king of hell, so good luck with that!” Bree wheezed, trembling with terror.

“You think Rowena will help you? Please! That ginger bitch only looks out for herself! Look how many other witches she’s gotten killed with her ‘help’!”

Bree squeezed her eyes shut and tried to figure a way out of her current situation. She knew she couldn’t run from the Krampus forever and didn’t know off the top of her head how to kill it. Nearby, she could hear the grating sounds of metal crunching and scraping, followed by a loud crash. _Of course,_ it had super strength, because why the hell not? 

She was rapidly spiraling into a panic, making it difficult to think and breathe. She knew the legends of the Krampus but had always just assumed it was nothing more than that. Hell, even Bobby thought it was just a twisted tale based on early Germanic people’s experiences with demons.

Bree scooted further beneath the truck, and she struggled to make her brain cooperate, growing even more frustrated and panicked by the second. If she were to have any hope of survival, she was going to need to get herself under control and _fast_. This was precisely why she had always hated hunting—Bree was admittedly not particularly good at thinking on her feet.

What would Bobby do in this sort of situation, or her father? Hell, what would Sam and Dean do!? Knowing Dean, he would probably try to tackle the beast head-on, relying on determination and brute strength to outmatch it. Considering that Bree was barely 5’5,” and the snow came to her knees, that idea was instantly scrapped. Sam, on the other hand, was calculating and strategic. That’s not to say that Dean didn’t have his moments, but Sam was typically much better about coming up with different ways to get out of tight situations. He would probably try to find an opportunity to either get Olivia and the Krampus to kill each other or pick them off one-by-one. Again, not something she could muster at the moment.

“C’mon, brain, work!” she hissed at herself, frustrated tears streaming down her face as her mind continued to blank out.

From beneath the truck, Bree could see the hooves and fur-covered legs of the Krampus as it toppled a stack of cars next to her like it was a pile of cushions. As fast as she could, she scrambled to a gap between some neighboring cars and rolled away just as the monster tossed the pile of cars she had been hiding under. More ducking and weaving, catching her coat on a sharp, metal corner and scratching her hands and face, Bree tried to get as far away as possible. Unfortunately, she soon found herself struggling to move despite the rush of adrenaline as her legs locked up from the cold, exhaustion, and fright.

“You’re only making this harder on yourself,” Olivia called mockingly as she meandered around in a circle, waiting for the creature to finish the job, “You’re trapped in this dump yard with us, so there’s no escaping this time! And with your pathetic, backwoods excuse for magic, I _highly_ doubt you’re witch enough to come up with a spell to help you! He’s immune to iron and silver. Salt does nothing to him, and none of your half-assed little hunter’s tricks will be of any use. Too bad you didn’t get the Book of the Damned from Rowena, huh?”

Bree crawled behind an old Cadillac and panted heavily, struggling to catch her breath. Her lungs, hands, and face burned from the frigid air while her legs were almost completely numb from the snow soaking through her jeans and leggings. At this rate, if the Krampus didn’t kill her first, hypothermia was sure to do the job.

Bree furrowed her brow and shut her eyes as she once again tried to come up with a way to get out of her current situation, Olivia’s taunts echoing in her head. If Rowena had been here, she would have easily pulled some spell out of her pocket and casually strut away as the bodies hit the floor. Bree’s eyes flew open as she was suddenly struck with inspiration. When all else failed, magic would pull through, and there was one spell that Rowena had taught her for just this sort of last-ditch situation.

As quietly as she could, Bree peeked out from behind the car, assessing her location in comparison to where Olivia and the Krampus were. From what she could make out through the gaps between rows of cars, she was on just the other side of the garage, further down from where the older witch was pacing. Squinting and leaning forward slightly, Bree could see the older witch toying with a pendant around her neck, no doubt the source of her control over the monster. If she could get that away from Olivia, she would possibly be able to take control of the Krampus, though there was no guarantee it would work. Bree would need to maneuver perfectly through the cars if she were to keep the element of surprise.

Facing forward once more, she riffled through her pockets and pulled out her last two hex bags. Undoing the strings, Bree balanced the sachets on her thighs as she picked through the contents, swapping bones and stones with ones she kept in her pockets. Pulling out her knife, she made a small slice in both palms before gathering up a set of bones in each hand and squeezing, bleeding onto the bones as she muttered a spell. Replacing the bones, Bree retied the bags, finished the spell, and carefully put them back in her pockets along with her knife.

Crouching down, she began to make her way across the back of the salvage yard to Olivia, careful not to make too much noise. She could hear the Krampus overturning and shoving piles of cars and scrap metal about in search for her back towards the front gate. Thankfully, it hadn’t caught the scent of her blood just yet, although Bree knew that it was only a matter of time.

Once in position, she held her breath in anticipation as she waited until Olivia moved close enough. One step, two steps, three steps—NOW! Pushing off the wheel of some totaled rust-bucket, Bree lunged forward and tackled Olivia to the ground with a grunt. Pulling at her coat, Bree tussled with Olivia to try and get the pendant, both of them flailing about in the snow.

“Get off, you bitch!”

Eyes flashing purple, Olivia blasted Bree back several feet. Furious, the older witch kicked about the snow with a huff as she struggled to stand. With a wide fling of her arms, she blasted snow from the driveway between them and stomped forward. Bree panted heavily and scooted backward, her hands slipping on the icy gravel.

“You seriously thought that would work? You filthy, fucking urchin!?” she boomed, eyes still glowing as she stalked towards her, “How dare you even—”

“Praeligo corpus!”

Olivia abruptly froze in place, body still as a statue as the words died in her throat. Bree chuckled lightly as she pulled herself up, panting heavily and swaying on her feet before walking forward. Slowly she circled Olivia, admiring her handiwork before coming to a stop before her, a tiny smirk playing on her lips.

“Rowena did teach this street rat a spell or two,” Bree stated as she pulled a hex bag from her jacket pocket, “You should really learn to watch your pockets.”

Taking a step or two back, Bree looked around her. The night was utterly silent, with no noise coming from the Krampus or cars being shuffled about. Bree could feel a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach as she was filled with dread. Her blood continued to pound in her ears as she let out a ragged breath, her heart rate quickening. The worst kinds of monsters, in her experience, were always the ones who could hunt undetected.

Suddenly, a loud crash rang out as the beast smashed through a stack of cars behind her, causing Bree to jump and let out a shriek. Feet twisting over themselves, she fell flat on her ass and quickly tried to push away. The Krampus let out a loud, murderous roar before charging forward. Fumbling with the remaining hex bag, Bree threw it towards the beast and screamed a spell.

“MANETE!”

The Krampus stopped abruptly, almost falling flat on its face, not even ten feet away from her. Letting out another thunderous roar, the beast lunged forward, thrashing about, and swiping its claws at Bree, but it failed to reach her. Trembling slightly, she pulled herself back to her feet with some difficulty. Staggering backward, Bree moved towards the old garage and workshop, not once taking her eyes off the Krampus.

“Impetus bestiarum.”

Bumping into one of the tables outside the garage, Bree glanced behind herself before shuffling back. Squeezing between a workbench and the front corner of the garage, she ducked into the safety of the shadows. A loud caw echoed from overhead, startling her a little. Leaning forward, Bree could just barely see the dark figures of the three crows from earlier, perched atop the old, rusted building.

“I may not be a natural-born witch,” she stated quietly, her voice raspy from screaming and the cold air, “And I may be unconventional even for a self-taught one, following old Appalachian traditions… But I’m not the one getting dragged to hell, Olivia. Dele malum hoc.”

With a loud snarl, the Krampus was unbound from its spot and rushed at Olivia, who was still frozen in place by Bree’s spell. Blood splattered everywhere as it tore into her, shredding the witch to bits and devouring her. Bree blanched away from the carnage, feeling bile rise in her throat as she squeezed her eyes shut. Opening them slightly, she saw old tools and canisters of oil strewn about the workbench and garage. Hurrying forward, she began digging around for anything to use on the monster. The Krampus was now filled with bloodlust, and it would only be a matter of time before it turned its attention back on her.

Accidentally kicking over a gas can in her haste, Bree smelled the familiar stench of gasoline. Snatching up the container, she gave it a shake and was relieved to find that there was surprisingly still some left. Forcefully yanking open several drawers, she finally found one of the spare boxes of matches that Bobby had kept all around the main parts of the property years ago.

Running from the garage, Bree slid to a halt at the sight of Olivia’s bloody remains. Shaking her head, she splashed gasoline over the creature, soaking its fur and catching its attention. Whipping around, the Krampus growled lowly, blood dripping from its fangs and eyes as the spell continued to work. Hands shaking with panic and fear, Bree somehow managed to light a match and fling it at the beast, successfully setting it aflame.

The Krampus let out an ungodly wail in pain as the flames scorched its fur and flesh, the pungent smell of gasoline and brimstone burning Bree’s nose. The crows perched atop the garage began to squawk incessantly, their voices mingling with the Krampus’. Slowly the monster fell to its knees, its cries of agony echoing into the night. After several long moments, the Krampus finally collapsed into the pool of blood that once was Olivia, former high priestess of the uprising witches of the Grand Coven.

Silence once more washed over the salvage yard while smoke and flame continued to rise into the blackened sky. Bree glanced upwards as the three crows took flight once more, disappearing into the darkness from whence they came. Letting out a heavy sigh, she turned her attention back to the fire before her, watching as the remains of the Krampus and Olivia were engulfed and destroyed.

For five, long years, she had been on the run from the witches of the Grand Coven, having to always watch over her shoulder everywhere she went. Finally, after all that time, Bree was free—free to go wherever she pleased, to finally live her life as she wished without interruption. A numbness slowly settled over her as she stared blankly into the flames, all fear and adrenaline having melted away. There was no sense of relief or joy, only nothingness. She’d fought and finally won back her autonomy… So, why did she still feel so empty?


	9. Chapter 9

Jody brought the truck to a slow stop at the gates to Bobby Singer’s old salvage yard. This wasn’t the first time she had been here since his death, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was any easier now. Jody took a deep breath as she reminisced on all the times she’d come here when Bobby was alive. For the most part, each visit had been because she was arresting him for some reason or another. After the dead had risen in Sioux Falls—a nightmare from which some of its citizens were still twitchy—the nature of the visits changed considerably. Eventually, Jody and Bobby had formed a close kinship, one which had her questioning how different her life would be had he not been killed.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Jody cut off the engine and climbed out of her old F-250, the headlights taking a moment to turn off. With a click of her Maglite, she illuminated the gate before her and trudged forward, careful not to cause the old metal to creak too loudly as she squeezed through. Pointing the beam at the snowy drive before her, she could see a staggered trail of footprints leading further onto the property. Feeling a surge of hopefulness, Jody drew a ragged breath and marched onward.

Aside from the familiar crunch of her boots stomping through snow and the huff of each strained breath, the salvage yard was utterly silent. Snow had fallen considerably since the night before, leaving behind a thick blanket of white that came to her mid-calf. A lifetime spent in the upper Midwest had prepared her for heavy and sporadic snowfall, although being newly in her 40s also meant she wasn’t quite as spry as she used to be. It certainly didn’t help that every monster she hunted decided to try and bust her kneecaps. At the rate she was going, Jody would end up the world’s first bionic sheriff and hunter, a sentiment that had made both Sam and Dean chuckle.

When the boys had asked Jody to keep an eye out for Bree, they also warned that a group of upstart witches was also hunting her. Admittedly, magic and witchcraft were aspects of hunting that Jody was still mostly unfamiliar with, having not had the opportunity to deal with any. However, she had learned enough from both Bobby’s and the Winchesters’ stories to proceed with caution. She also kept a stash of witch-killing bullets in her truck, courtesy of Sam and Dean, which were currently loaded in the gun strapped to her hip. If Bree had indeed sought the sanctuary of Bobby’s old property, then it was guaranteed that the witches hunting her wouldn’t be far behind.

The eerie stillness surrounding her only heightened Jody’s hunter instincts, setting her a little bit on edge. After the run-in with vampires almost two years ago that had been the catalyst for bringing Alex into her life, it was more than understandable. Roughly halfway along the driveway, the footprints disappeared suddenly, causing her to stop and look around in alarm. Snow was kicked about haphazardly as if there had been some sort of altercation, destroying any traces of the trail she’d been following just moments before. 

Raising her Maglite higher in the air and stepping carefully, Jody could see patches of exposed asphalt and gravel, coated in a thin layer of ice. Ever careful, she placed a tentative hand on her gun and continued forward, eyes scanning the ground as she continued to shine the flashlight all around her. However, Jody stopped abruptly when she came upon a set of massive, hoof-like prints further down the drive.

Drawing her gun and clicking off the safety, Jody assumed the low and ready position, holding her Maglite just below the barrel. She didn’t know what exactly had made those prints, nor did she know if a gun would be even remotely useful against it, but her training had kicked in automatically. Stalking onwards, Jody moved as quietly and carefully as possible, straining to hear even the slightest bit of movement in the darkness.

Rounding the curve of the driveway, she was shocked to find several cars strewn about the property. Some were toppled over onto their sides, clearly knocked over by something powerful, while others had been flipped upside down and were now leaning at odd angles against other vehicles. Bits of scrap metal, glass, and rubber littered the salvage yard’s open patches, standing out against the snow.

Jody swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure as she kept going but admittedly rattled by the property’s chaotic state. Up ahead, she caught sight of the silhouette of Bobby’s house—or what remained of it, anyway. The wood had been so badly scorched that whatever hadn’t crumbled or turned to ash was blackened to the point that it blended into the night. As she drew nearer, Jody could detect the faint odors of gasoline and smoke. Holding her breath, Jody prayed that Bree had started a fire to keep warm and that the smell wasn’t instead from something far worse.

Once she came up to the house, she could see more signs of a scuffle in the snow, several sets of prints trailing overtop each other before disappearing amongst the rows of cars. Several feet ahead, a large section of the driveway had been completely cleared of snow, the icy gravel glistening beneath the garage’s overhead light. Past what formerly had been Bobby’s workshop and garage, a dark, massive pile was still smoldering, a thin wisp of smoke drifting off into the sky. A large pool of blood stemmed outwards from the pile, the crimson blending into the dark gravel and concrete.

Pivoting in place, Jody looked all around the salvage yard for any signs of life. Everything remained frozen in the winter’s night, with the only sounds coming from her boots twisting in the snow, rocks, and dirt. Peering into the shadowy rubble of Bobby’s former home, however, Jody could just barely make out a figure sitting on what would have been the main stairs. Keeping her flashlight pointed down, she tiptoed through the snow-covered debris, careful to not startle whatever or whoever it was. However, Jody heaved a sigh of relief when she finally recognized who it was.

Clicking back on the safety, the sheriff holstered her gun and cautiously approached, “Hey, honey.”

Bree glanced to where the flashlight shone in her peripheral, feeling a strange sense of comfort at the sound of the familiar voice, “Hey, Jody.”

Once close enough, Jody reached out and softly placed a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder before sitting down in the step next to her with a quiet grunt, “We’ve been looking all over for you. Everyone’s been worried. Want to tell me what happened?”

Bree sat silently for a moment, staring down at the ground thoughtfully while Jody patiently waited for an answer. Even with the Maglite pointed downward, the older hunter could clearly see cuts and bruises on her face. There were some fresh nicks and scrapes on Bree’s forehead and cheeks, as well as a small bruise along her jaw. The largest bruise, which expanded from the corner of her eye to her cheekbone, had already faded to a yellowish-brown hue. It thankfully appeared to be healing properly, albeit slowly.

Jody silently continued to look her over, subtly inspecting her for other injuries. Bree’s jacket was snagged and torn in a few places, and her hands had some scratches that looked relatively new, but nothing serious caught her attention. She noticed that Bree’s hair had grown considerably longer since they had seen each other last, though it was still as unruly as ever. The youthful roundness that once filled her cheeks had slimmed down, making her finally look closer to her actual age. Dark, deep circles sat underneath Bree’s eyes; whether they were from the strains of having been on the run for almost two weeks or something else, Jody couldn’t say for sure.

“Bree?” Jody encouraged gently when she still hadn’t spoken after a while.

“I’m not okay, Jody,” she croaked quietly, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, “I just… I can’t anymore…”

“Shhh. It’s okay,” she soothed, pulling Bree close as she rubbed a comforting hand up and down her arm.

“I feel so, so empty… I just-I just can’t deal with this anymore,” hot tears began cascading down Bree’s cheeks as she let out a shaky breath.

“Deal with what, honey?”

“Everything? I just—I don’t belong anywhere, Jody. I’m not wanted anywhere. Everyone wants to kill me, and I can’t trust anyone,” Bree trailed off before sniffling and swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat, “Mom tried to kill me, daddy left, Bobby replaced me, Dean wants me dead—”

“Wait. What?!” Jody interrupted, startled, “Why would you say something like that?”

Bree sniffled in response, “He thinks I can’t be trusted, that I bewitched his brother and Bobby.”

“Why would he think that?”

In all the years Jody had known the Winchesters, she had _never_ known Dean to be so distrusting of someone he hunted with on the regular. Sure, he had gone off the reservation a couple of years back, but that was because of some cursed mark, not him. But Bree accusing the hunter of wanting her dead had immediately raised red flags.

“Bobby didn’t tell the guys about me before I met them,” she explained, “He didn’t tell them anything so, to them at least, I just sort of came out of nowhere. He didn’t like how close Bobby and I were and didn’t— _doesn’t_ trust me. They didn’t even tell me when Bobby died. I had to find out from another hunter almost two months later.”

“Oh, Bree—”

“And with Sam… Dean doesn’t like how we act around each other,” she continued, “He thinks Sam is too close to me and that I’m gonna use him or put a spell on him or something. Dean thinks I’m gonna manipulate him like this demon named Ruby did years ago. Doesn’t help that she had apparently been a witch when she was human. But it’s not like that… it’s _never_ been like that. Sam would _never_ …”

Jody gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “Bree, Sam genuinely seems to care about you. If those frantic phone calls from him asking if anyone had seen you are anything to go by? I’d say he cares a lot,” she reassured.

Bree scoffed and shook her head, “Sam is a bleeding heart for anyone he thinks is a pity case and needs saving. I’m no more special than anyone else. I just happen to be convenient and a distraction.”

Jody pulled back slightly and looked down at the younger woman, “Honey, Sam would _never_ think that way about you.”

“Could have fooled me. We flirt. We get close. I think, just maybe there’s something there. Then, he and Dean get in a fight, and Sam pulls away like I’m some plague-creature. Dean thinks they’re wasting their time on me and that Sam should stop letting his guard down, that I’m just another monster to hunt,” she stated sadly, tears still falling.

Jody pulled Bree back into a tight hug, gently caressing her head as she began to rock slightly, “You listen to me, Bridget Wildes. You are _not_ a monster. I don’t know a lot about the whole witch thing, and I don’t know everything that went on after Bobby died, but you do not deserve this. So long as I live, I will make damn sure that no hunter lays a finger on you.”

“That’s what Bobby said too,” Bree retorted, sniffling as she buried her face in Jody’s shoulder, “Look how that went.”

“Well, I’m not Bobby, and I’m still here, sweetheart. I don’t care how long it’s been. You can _always_ come to me for help. I don’t care how old you get or what you do. My door will always be open to you. All you have to do is come home.”

A sob wracked through Bree as she clung tightly to Jody. She was so tired of everything, and the simple concept of having a place to consider home was both foreign and overwhelming. At that moment, there was nothing Bree wanted more than to go somewhere safe and warm, where she knew she could finally relax. Despite how the two women had grown apart over the years thanks to hunting and outside forces, Jody offering her a once-familiar comfort was enough to make her crumble.

Jody held her for a while, continuing to rock as she softly shushed, and Bree sobbed into the safety of her arms. Despite Jody being close enough in age to Bree to be an older sister, she had always had a motherly bond with the younger woman. Even after all this time, that connection to each other was there. It was abundantly clear that Bree still needed somebody, anybody, to be an advocate for her. It was a role that Jody was more than willing to step into, without question.

After a long while, Jody finally pulled away and sat Bree upright, wiping away her tears with a tender smile, “C’mon, let’s get you home and cleaned up. I’ve got chili in the crockpot.”

Helping her stand on numb and shaky legs, Jody helped Bree brush the ash and dirt from her jeans. Clutching her arm to help her walk, Jody and Bree haphazardly made their way through the rubble to the driveway. The pair made the slow trek back down the driveway, this time hiking through the trail that already existed, so it was easier on their frozen joints. The entire way back to the front gate, Jody kept a hold on Bree, an arm wrapped around her shoulders as she tucked her against her side.

“By the way, want to tell me what happened to all the cars back there?” Jody asked, genuinely curious.

“Long story short? I killed Krampus.”

“O-oh…”

* * *

_Sam slowly walked down the hallway of Bobby’s house—or what looked like his house. It was a little hard to be sure since all the color was muted to a grayish hue. Save for a few sparse patches of moonlight shining through dirty windows, the house was completely dark. The loaded guns and towering stacks of books that should have been scattered about the numerous rooms were nowhere to be found. Even the outdated furniture was missing throughout the house._

_As Sam continued down the hall, he noticed that his boots didn’t make the right sounds when he stepped. Instead of the familiar creaking from the old wooden floors and heavy thumps of his shoes, everything was muffled. It reminded him of being submerged underwater, where all light and sound seemed to be absorbed by the depths._

_Cautiously rounding the corner into what would have been the study, Sam was surprised to find it too was barren. Bobby’s old desk was missing, along with the pictures, countless piles of lore, and various occult tools they had often used when hunting. The only furniture left was the built-in bookcases and the old, worn-out sofa in front of the windows. Approaching one of the cases to inspect it, Sam furrowed his brow in confusion. When Bobby was alive, they had been stuffed to the brim with books, organized in a systematic way that only the ornery hunter could understand. Now they stood vacant, with only cobwebs and a thin sheet of dust lining their shelves._

_Turning back around, Sam studied the scene before him. Like everything else, all color had been drained from the room, apart from blood-red warding painted on the tall, grit-coated windows. How many days had they spent here—as both children and adults—looking through books and researching lore?_

_Peering into the old fireplace, Sam could see a pile of ash and soot, the remnants of a long burnt-out fire. Pulling himself back up to his full height, Sam wandered over to the sofa and tilted his head in thought. It looked the same as it did all those years ago, back before leviathans had set Bobby’s house ablaze. There were extra worn patches of fabric, particularly on the armrests, and bits where the stuffing had begun to stick out. The middle sagged low to the ground from years of him and Dean collapsing onto it with their full weights._

_Looking to his right, Sam took in the gritty and abandoned state of the kitchen. There was no sign of life anywhere in the house. The atmosphere was so heavy and stifling that he couldn’t even hear himself breathe._

_“Sam…”_

_A soft, feminine voice called out to him, echoing throughout the house. Instead of feeling alarmed, a wave of excitement washed over him. Sam whirled around, looking for the owner of the voice, his breath hitching as he did. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the sofa, his pulse quickening in anticipation as he anxiously wiped his hands on his jeans._

_As soon as he sat down, Sam was pulled back against the couch. Warm, soft hands gently trailed over his shoulders and down his chest. One hand dragged across his jaw and lips, causing him to turn his head with it while plush lips kissed along his pulse point. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, and he let out a throaty moan, thrusting his hips lightly._

_Deft fingers quickly unbuttoned his flannel before trailing feather-light touches down his stomach to his belt. Sam arched in pleasure and threw his head back as hot, open-mouthed kisses were left searing on his skin. His pants grew painfully hard as a hickey was sucked onto his neck, eliciting a pitiful whimper from him. It was both overwhelming and not enough all at the same time._

_Sam could feel his head begin to spin and struggled to fully draw a breath. In one swift motion, he twisted and yanked the woman over the couch. Manhandling her onto his lap, Sam crashed his lips to hers in a bruising kiss, tangling his fingers in her hair. She mewled against his mouth and ground down against his rock-hard bulge, smashing her breasts against his chest as she pressed against him._

_“Bree,” Sam whispered against her lips and opened his eyes._

_Large, brilliant, purple eyes stared back at him, pupils blown with lust. Her plush, kiss-swollen lips were parted slightly as she quietly panted into his mouth. Thick, messy waves and curls spilled over her shoulders and into her face, causing her to look every bit like a wild woman._

_Bree had on a clean, white, cotton dress that Sam had never seen her wear before. Delicate lace made up the straps and trimmed the top and bottom hems. It was thin, with nothing underneath, and already slipping from her voluptuous figure, revealing the supple curves of her breasts to him._

_Licking his lips hungrily, Sam gently pulled the lacey straps down, pooling the top of the dress around her waist and leaving her exposed to him. Sam cupped one breast in his hand, admiring its heft and softness before he eagerly latched onto the pert nipple. Bree mewled at the sensation and rolled her hips against him. As Sam sucked and teased the hardened bud, she tangled her fingers in his chestnut locks._

_Using his free hand, Sam skillfully undid his buckle and unzipped his jeans. He continued to shallowly thrust his hips as he shifted and freed his aching cock. With another roll of her hips, Bree dragged her bare folds along his dick. Coated in her juices, Sam held himself so he could catch on her entrance, allowing her to sink down on him in one, fluid motion. Sam groaned loudly as her delicious, wet heat engulfed him. Once fully seated, his cock twitched excitedly inside her._

_Releasing her nipple, Sam captured Bree in a sloppy kiss. Forcefully grabbing the thick globes of her ass, Sam pulled her almost all the way off his dick before slamming her back down again. Bree launched herself forward and clung to Sam’s neck as she cried out in pleasure. Sam repeated the motion, slamming her back down onto his hard cock over and over again. Their tongues twisted together as Sam thrust his hips up in time with the action._

_Harder, faster, skin slapping against skin echoed all around the room along with their grunts and moans. Sam pounded relentlessly into her and nipped at her neck, eliciting a string of incoherent curses from her as she rapidly approached the edge. Sweat coated both of their skin as they ground their bodies together, Sam fucking her on the dingy couch. He could feel his balls tighten with the promise of his own impending orgasm, the tight squeeze of her walls dragging him closer at an alarming rate. He wasn’t going to last long._

_Sam’s breath caught in his throat as he felt himself reach that familiar crest. Desperate, Sam’s hips began to stutter as he fucked into Bree mercilessly. There would undoubtedly be bruises where his fingertips had dug into the soft flesh of her thighs and ass. Bree keened and gasped as the air was punched from her lungs. Sam could hear the sofa slide across the floor from the force of his thrusts before slamming into the wall and windowsill behind it._

_Bree arched her back and jerked against him as her orgasm came crashing down on her. With a sharp tug of his hair, a sharp twinge of pain shot through him, mixing deliciously with the pleasure. Not even two more thrusts and Sam reached his end with a snarl, cum painting her inner walls._

_“Sam… Sam… SAM!”_

“SAM!”

Sam’s eyes shot open as he lurched himself forward on the bed, drenched in sweat and panting heavily. He looked around the room, disoriented, taking a moment to recognize his surroundings. He was back in his bedroom at the bunker, light from the hallway bleeding through the vent and cracks in the door. Sam’s thighs continued to twitch as the aftershocks of his orgasm coursed through him, causing a dark spot to form on the front of his sweats.

Another sharp knock came from the door as Dean called from the other side, “C’mon, man! I made pancakes!”

Sam let out a heavy sigh and scrubbed a hand down his face. The sounds of Dean’s boots echoed down the hallway before disappearing entirely. As he went to move off the bed, Sam stopped abruptly, cringing in disgust at the sticky spendings that covered him and his sleep pants. Carefully, Sam stood and peeled his clothes from himself, discarding them in the laundry basket before he cleaned himself off at the sink. As if being in his 30s and having a wet dream wasn’t bad enough, now he was going to have to do another load of laundry.


End file.
